The Rice Affair
by Lady Dan
Summary: "She's cheating on you, John. SH"  John/Sherlock pre-slash, technically. Nothing romantic here. A story with a real plot arc, not a drabble.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hi! This posted story is going to be the raw, unedited text of the roleplay between fancylances (FanFiction user TheShoelessOne) and myself. This is the first story arc we wrote together. know that I could make it more story-form but I don't like moving this out of it's natural medium. The story flows in a manner that really isn't conducive to chapters (which I'm doing anyway), let alone longer paragraphs than were original. Maybe I'm just lazy, but hey! I really hope you like it anyway!

So without further ado:

* * *

_John, I'm sorry._

_SH_

_Sorry, what? Where are you?_

_JW_

_Oh, you haven't found them yet, then? Forget what I said._

_SH_

_Sherlock. Found what, may I ask?_

_JW_

_Nothing. Don't come home for twelve minutes._

_SH_

_I'm at the door._

_JW_

Inside the apartment, one can hear John's faint struggle with the keys and his two bags of groceries.

_JOHN, DON'T COME IN._

_SH_

John's gaze goes upward for a moment, and he tentatively steps into the kitchen, sliding the bags onto the counter, eyes on the- closed- door to his room. "Sherlock...?"

There is _dead silence_ for too long, then the quiet creaking of footsteps in John's room and then silence again.

Moving slowly but with a purpose, John starts up the steps, soon reaching his door. "Sherlock?" He queries, sounding a little worried.

There is no sound from the other side of John's door, but a moment later there is a crash from downstairs, the vicinity of Sherlock's bedroom, and a string of muffled curses.

John pounds down the stairs, opening the door to Sherlock's bedroom with hardly a second thought. "What _are_ you doing?"

Sherlock looks as though he's tumbled in through his open window, and has a long, bleeding gash on his forearm, which he is inspecting as though it's an annoyance rather than painful. "I told you not to come in, John. Now look what you've done."

John lets out a short, angry sigh. "Let me see that." He takes Sherlock's forearm, careful not to touch the blood. "_This_ is not my fault." He peers out the window momentarily. "Honestly, what were you trying to do? Booby-trap my room somehow?" John sounds incredulous, letting go of his flatmate's arm.

"Careful, John," Sherlock hisses when John touches his arm. "No, I wasn't trapping your room, don't be dull. I was... cataloguing it."

Thoughtfully, he adds: "Do you think we should collect the excess blood for coagulation tests?"

"I- coagulation tests? Sherlock, honestly. Come on, get into the kitchen so I can clean this cut." John looks to be what one would call 'vexed'. His thoughts seem disorganized. "Why were you cataloging my room? And what did you gash yourself like this, on?"

"Your window frame." Sherlock follows dutifully, pouting like a child, and he flops down into the chair just like a five-year-old. "And I was cataloguing your room in case I should ever need to find my way around your room in an emergency. Though really, John, your choice in pornography is a bit banal. Under the mattress, like a teenager." He holds out his arm for John to get a look at.

John rummages in the cupboard, knowing that he had put a medicinal kit in there at some point in time. Hopefully it hasn't (yet) fallen prey to an 'experiment'. Pursed lips at Sherlock's comment regarding what was found under his mattress. "I really would appreciate if you wouldn't go into my room, Sherlock. Arm out please." John has taken a fresh paper towel and wet it slightly to dab at the cut.

Sherlock is hardly paying attention to the wound, curling his knees up to his chest in the chair and perched like a gargoyle. "Why not? If you're dying and the only thing that can save you is in your room, I think it's a good idea to have a floorplan saved to my hard drive." He holds his arm out for John, very disappointed that John won't let him save the blood that's dripping down his arm.

John lets out another sigh, trying to appeal to logic. "Why on earth would anything in my room be the only thing that could save me? Name three things." He continues cleaning, looking for the gauze.

Without looking down, Sherlock instructs: "Bottom right cupboard, behind the digestives." He sighs through his nose and flexes the fingers of his injured arm. "The extra bullets in your underwear drawer, for one. Assuming you were unconscious, the thermal blanket you've stored on the top shelf in your closet for if the heat goes and you need to keep your internal temperature from dipping into hypothermia. You have a box of medications in your nightstand, at least two of which contain heavy amounts of blood-clotting agents which could be instrumental in keeping you from bleeding out." He gives a smug grin. "Shall I go on?"

"No, thank you." John opens the previously- indicated drawer, swiftly cutting gauze to size and applying it. He is glad that Sherlock has the sense not to move about while John is working on him. "Why would you exit via the window, rather than the door?" He scoffs quietly. "Wanted to see if it was possible, or just trying to get yourself killed?"

He seems uncomfortable for the first time in the conversation. "I didn't think you'd take kindly to me rooting through your intimates, John." As if it's the plainest thing in the world. Sherlock seems slightly worried that John might break at any moment and beat him up, so to speak.

"So why," John asks, eyes intent on Sherlock's arm as he finishes up with the taped gauze, "would you do it anyway. And you don't need to answer that. I'll be upstairs."

John leaves the kitchen, limping slightly but still managing to move a little more quickly than his usual. He has a need to visually assess what damage sherlock has done to his room.

Miffed that John's left before Sherlock can finish, he whips out his phone.

_You weren't supposed to know, you ruined everything by coming home twelve minutes too early._

_SH_

There's no reply for a minute, as John presumably decides whether or not to look at his phone. Then,

_I don't think that it really matters what I was supposed to be doing._

_JW_

_Go look at your pornography, then. See if I administer blood-clotting agents the next time you are bleeding out on the floor._

_SH_

There is the distinct sound of Sherlock slamming a door from below.

John doubts that Sherlock will be back anytime soon, and he hops onto his bed, flipping open his laptop to read something more illuminating than what Sherlock had suggested.

_Try not to wet the gauze, or bleeding might start again. JW _John replies, going for 'medically detached'.

_Jumping in the Thames is out then. I'm not an idiot._

_SH_

_I was thinking more along the line of experimenting with tea. Sorry._

_JW_

There are no texts for at least twenty minutes, but John isn't worried, just irritable. Then:

_She is cheating on you, John._

_SH_

_What?_

_JW_

_Beatrice. Sleeping with another man. Thought it was clear enough from my last text._

_SH_

_Of course she isn't. You can't possibly have thought up something like that after just seeing my room._

_JW_

_Of course not. She's at Regent's Park. He's certainly a step down from you._

_SH_

_You are just fooling with me to get me to forget about you going through my room._

_JW_

_Very well. If you won't do something, I will._

_SH_

John's head, tilted backwards with a long sigh, hits his bed's headboard. He isn't sure whether to believe it, but why would Sherlock lie? He can't think of anything to reply, so he phone falls to the bed and John goes tentatively into his email, rereading those from Beatrice. Just for peace of mind..

Hardly more than thirteen minutes later, John's phone buzzes with a text.

_come down to the station and pick sherlock up_

_GL_

John's laptop closes and his head is briefly in his hands now. "Oh, why me..." He mutters in a rare moment of self-pity.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: This next part is pretty quick, so I thought I'd just post it now and get over it! More of a plot is coming soon, never fear. Thank you in advance for your kind reviews!

* * *

Shortly, John walks into the station, hands in coat pockets, looking around. He honestly does not want to know what Sherlock has been taken in for. The doctor tries to look awake, feeling quite the opposite, weary, even.

Sherlock is sitting at Donovan's desk, staring her down, with something that will eventually be a bruise under his eye. He smiles cheekily when he sees John.

"I hit him." He motions at the bruise. "Beatrice hit me. And pressed charges."

"_Why,_ would you hit him?" John asks, a bit dumbstruck. Donovan looks no more than the usual amount of irritated; John guesses that some other officer actually came to the scene.

Sherlock looks frankly surprised, and he stands from his seat to match John. "Because you weren't there to hit him." Like it's so obvious and John's a fool not to know.

John lets out a short sigh, lost for words. "I see." He glances at Donovan. "Is there some sort of bail involved here, or can we leave?"

Sherlock frowns when John is not immediately impressed with his heroics and begins to pout just as impetuously as he had in the flat.

Donovan waves them off. "Lestrade's worked it out. I don't want to look at his face anymore."

Sherlock's flatmate smiles slightly. "Well, that's that. Thank you, officer." Polite as always. Then John glances at Sherlock. "Do you know where.. Beatrice is?"

Sherlock hasn't finished pouting. "To hell with Beatrice." He frowns into his phone and begins texting angrily.

"Sherlock..." John begins, before realizing he has nowhere to go. A pause. "Who are you texting, then?"

"My brother. Perhaps he can drop a bomb on her flat." He almost touches the bruise on his face and clearly decides it's a bad idea, going back to angrily punching words into his phone.

"I- I don't really think that's going to be necessary." John eyes Sherlock's forearm wound, seeing that his handiwork has apparently withstood this mishap. The bleeding looks like it started again, but only briefly. He takes out his own phone, finding Mycroft's number.

_Ignore Sherlock. We're at the police station. _

_JW_

"You don't even sound angry," Sherlock says, peering up over his phone. "Are you pleased that she's cheating on you? You're certainly vigorous enough with Beatrice, so it can't be about the sex. Is she unfunny?"

"I can't be angry with something I scarcely believe. Maybe it was her brother." John is still in the 'denial' stage, Sherlock would be concluding. "Would you rather I went back to being angry about you, earlier?" He seems to be ruffled again.

"I was trying to do you a favor." He narrows his eyes at John. "Clearly, you don't trust me, though I'm rarely _ever_ wrong. So you're in denial. Cute, John. Very adolescent of you." He pushes past John and swirls out of the office in an extremely dramatic fashion.

John looks frustrated, hands clenching in his pockets. "I'll be at the flat!" he shouts after Sherlock, getting a few glances from the policemen. Lips pursed, he follows Sherlock's path as far as the door to the station, opting to hail a cab. Yet again.

_I've moved the tea. Good luck. _

_SH _

_I think that's what you would have called "juvenile", no? _

_JW _

_You're the juvenile one. Accept that I'm right and you can have your tea back. _

_SH _

_Sorry, right about what? I_ will_ talk with Beatrice later.. assuming that she isn't sore after your... little altercation earlier. Please Sherlock, where is my tea? _

_JW _

_I am always right. I'm not telling you. I'm cross. _

_SH _

_Why are you cross? You are the one who was going through my room earlier. _

_JW _

_That's not the point, John. I'm cross because you don't trust me. _

_SH _

Seconds later, another text comes through.

_You can go through my things if it makes you feel better. _

_SH _

Halfway through replying to the first when he sets the second, John sighs through his nose and puts his phone away for a moment, paying the cab driver and taking out his key.

_No, thank you, I will respect your privacy. JW_ Is all the doctor can think to reply.

There's no new text from Sherlock, but he is banging around in the kitchen when John gets in, making a great deal of noise.

John comes upstairs, tentatively, closing the door quietly despite how likely it is that Sherlock already knows he has arrived. He bites his lip, trying not to ask if Sherlock is trying to make tea. God, he hopes not. It worked badly enough the first time.

When John gets near enough to the kitchen, Sherlock holds out a mug of something that certainly resembles tea, a very serious expression on his face. "I won't tell you where the rest of it is. But I thought you might need it."

John takes the mug, uncertainly, nodding in thanks and taking a sip.

It isn't _really_ bad. "What are you up to, then?" The doctor dares ask.

Sherlock hops into his chair, perching with his knees to his chest and fingers steepled. "There wasn't much time for me to deduce why Beatrice would be seeing another man on the side. Seeing as I'm between cases, I've decided to make it an exercise. I've queued up Casino Royale for you, in case you're in a foul mood. It's seemed to cheer you up in the past."

John leans on the doorframe, regarding Sherlock with a small amount of anger. He can tell that Sherlock _is_ trying. "Ah. Thanks." He says, thinking that he'll probably go upstairs and.. work on his blog or something. Maybe call Beatrice. But that's looking less and less likely, given Sherlock.

Sherlock pouts slightly, reading John's intentions easily. "You're not staying? I made tea." He has questions to ask, it's a failure of an exercise if he can't get any information out of John.

John figures that Sherlock saw the tea as a sort of a peace treaty. "Where is the rest of it? I don't want to have to look for it all night." Maybe he can get the upper hand as far as bargaining goes, or at least back to being on even ground. Ha, not likely.

Sherlock frowns, narrowing his eyes at John and inspecting him thoroughly. He sighs through his nose; getting John talking is better than having him silent because of the tea mystery. "Behind Origin of the Species, top shelf, third from the right. My room." Once the information is imparted, Sherlock stares at a spot on the floor until John makes up his mind what to do.

John glares, knowing Sherlock intended this all along. Putting down the tea a little more firmly than was necessary, John starts up the stairs. Eyebrows narrowed and feeling like he's entering a combat situation, he pushes open the room's door.

Sherlock smirks to himself once John has gone.

The room is an organized war zone. Everything has a place, but that place is everywhere. It's not _dirty_, just an unholy mess. Like an exceptionally genius teenager lives there. The bookcase is clear enough, stuffed to the gills with books from dictionaries in several languages to beekeeping guides. Piles of old newspapers are stacked in front of the bookcase, and the book Sherlock indicated is on the top shelf a good ways above John's head.

John assesses the area, not entirely surprised at how it looks. Kicking at the newspapers to clear a space, he approaches the bookshelf. "Sherlock," John calls out, hoping he's loud enough to be heard downstairs, "I am not quite as tall as you are, you know." He glances around the room, looking for some sort of footstool.

Sherlock can most definitely hear John, but rather than come to his aid, he picks up his violin and begins scratching out a scale. By the grin, he thinks it's awfully amusing.

Rolling his eyes upwards, John gives up on hope of aid and drags over a promising-looking chair, barely managing to reach the plastic container and throw it toward Sherlock's bed before descending. Scoffing, he takes the tea and slams Sherlock's door behind them, bringing the container into his own room and closing the door. Sherlock would have to come to him, or stop that racket at least.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Part 3 already! Thanks for the love so far, I'm glad this venture isn't turning out too badly.

* * *

After roughly three minutes of scales, the noise abruptly stops. Seven seconds later, John's phone buzzes.

_Not coming back down? Tea is getting cold._

_SH_

_I'll make more later._

_JW_

John resumes scrolling down with his laptop's directional pad, half-reading some article about the effects of prolonged social isolation on the human psyche.

There is a brief, angry little tirade on the violin from downstairs, a loud little childish fit of a cacophony that ends abruptly. There follows a bit of stomping, some banging in the kitchen and a long (for Sherlock) silence.

Then, John's phone buzzes.

_Are you a bad lover?_

_SH_

_Honestly, you are asking me this?_

_JW_

_It can't be your demeanor, you a perfectly civil. Mostly. I am trying to deduce, John. Answer the question._

_SH_

_She says that she wants to wait, Sherlock, if it is ANY of your business._

_JW_

A brief silence is followed by a loud, "Of course!" from downstairs.

_She doesn't find you sexually appealing, yet she maintains the illusion of a physical relationship with you because she has dependency issues. Multiple beaus connotes that she has a spare, should she lose one. Always prepared, your Beatrice. Where have you put my nicotine patches?_

_SH_

_You don't need one._

_JW_

John lets out a long sigh, not sure how to take the news about Beatrice. It's not like Sherlock is ever wrong. Should he bother calling her? It had been looking so promising... He closes his laptop, then his eyes, leaning back against his headboard and wondering what to do now.

There's a long bout of nothing, lasting for nearly a ten full minutes. Then, the sound of the violin starts up. But it's not annoyed scraping anymore. It's a song, and it's rather good.

After a moment it becomes horrifyingly clear that it's _Alejandro_.

John opens his eyes at the moment of recognition, letting out a short snort of a laugh. "Sherlock, are you kidding me?" He shouts. Tempted to go downstairs just to shut that up, John straightens up, moving his closed laptop away. He wonders if Sherlock will stop now that he's yielded a reaction.

Rather than stopping the song, which had been a fairly classical rendition, John's outburst causes the song to jump up in both volume and tempo, bouncing along jauntily. Sherlock is frankly considering segueing into Poker Face, but he hasn't worked out the transition yet and so he continues.

"Sherlock," John calls out again, inconclusively. He stands and goes down the stairs, appearing in the doorway and looking at Sherlock. "Could you quit that?" He doesn't really look angry anymore.

Sherlock peers over his shoulder when John appears and drops his bowhand, still holding the violin between chin and shoulder. He smirks, somewhat victoriously. "Chinese?"

"Alright." John replies, giving in just a little and coming over to sit on one side of the empty couch. "But I'm not ordering."

Sherlock swings the violin away, setting it on his chair and sweeping toward the phone in the same move. "Very well. Usual, then?" He can't recall John ever ordering anything other than the dim sums. Irrelevant data, not sure why he hasn't deleted it yet.

"Yes, thanks." John leans back. "Haven't you been offered any cases lately? It's been a few weeks, hasn't it?" He thinks he might need something to get his mind off of... it.

"Hm," Sherlock says as he searches amidst the kitchen clutter for the landline. "No, nothing interesting. Lestrade offered a supposed murder near King's Cross, but it was suicide. I could tell over the phone, it's a marvel no one else noticed." He finally finds the phone stepping into the doorway between kitchen and sitting room-he hisses when he presses the phone to his ear, having completely forgotten about the bruise there, then goes again, ordering in a bland voice.

John sighs. "So why don't you just tell them, rather than making them take days and days before giving up?" He patiently waits for Sherlock to finish ordering.

"And take all the fun out of it for them?" Sherlock asks after he's finished ordering. "No, I think Lestrade likes it when I leave him something easy to solve on his own once in a while." He looks as though he would like to splay out on the couch like a lazy kid, but since John is there he grimaces slightly and turns instead to perch in his chair.

Sherlock touches fingertips briefly to the purpling bruise under his eye thoughtlessly as his brain works. "I do wish I had something other than deducing your love life to exercise my thought process."

"Touching the bruise won't cause it to heal any faster."John comments offhandedly, adjusting himself on the couch. He wonders which one of them will end up getting the door for the Chinese. "If you're bored, maybe we could..." John trails off, not really certain how he was going to end that sentence anyway.

Sherlock gives him a very odd look reminiscent of the one he shot his friend across the table their first night at Angelo's. Confused, amused, wondering if he's heard John right.

He looks away, dropping his fingers from the bruise as he's asked. "John, as much as I appreciate the attention, you've just come off a break-up and I don't really think it's your best option right now."

"I.. what?" Something clicks. "I- No, no of course not." John's face looks like something out of a comic. "I mean, that's fine if you... no, that's not what I meant at all. Sorry." John looks flustered, not knowing how to get out of this conversation. Maybe the food will arrive faster than usual. Something. Anything.

Sherlock might be laughing to himself, but it doesn't show—much—and he only scrutinizes John for a moment more. "It's fine." He hops up out of the chair. "The delivery won't be along for another ten minutes at best, you know. Willing it here faster won't do a thing."

John eyes Sherlock, wishing he wouldn't do the deduction thing with quite so many of John's thoughts. He sort of wishes he had brought his laptop down with him, but also dreads receiving some sort of message from Beatrice. Though she IS just as likely to call his mobile.. reflexively, John checks it. Nothing.

Sherlock stands in front of John, hands in his pockets and looking down, deducing despite himself. "I probably _could_ get Mycroft to drop a bomb, if you'd like."

"Sherlock. Honestly. Not every problem is _best_ solved with bombings."

Sherlock sighs as though he's supremely disappointed and flops down unceremoniously on the other end of the sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankles. "I ordered. You pay. And answer the door. One of their delivery boys... doesn't care for me."

John doesn't dare ask why, and looking at the time it seems that the delivery should be almost to their flat. Limping down the stairs, John reaches the door and opens it, only to be almost hit in the face by the about-to-knock delivery boy. The worker looks apprehensive, even scared, but there is a small look of relief once he sees that the man answering the door is one, blond, and two, shorter than him. "Thanks." John says, noticing the young man's discomfort and paying quickly.

Sherlock doesn't stand to move or help John in any way when he returns with the food, simply watching him dully through half-lidded eyes and folding his fingers on his chest.

Eventually, he speaks up: "Sorry." It doesn't sound entirely convincing, as if he's deduced that it's what one should say in this situation, but it's not entirely cold either.

John blinks a few times, taken aback. "Thanks. "He hands Sherlock his half of the food, sitting back down onto the couch with a little sigh. He wishes even more for a distraction, plagued by dual threats of thoughts of Beatrice, and awkward conversations with Sherlock.

Sherlock pops a dumpling in his mouth, observes John briefly as he chews, then stands abruptly to stride across the room for the remote. Soon, James Bond is up on the screen and Sherlock has dipped back down on the opposite end of the sofa, chewing on another dumpling.

"What have you deduced so far?" John asks dryly, only a half-minute or so into the movie. He doesn't look very happy, or very interested. It's all starting to sink in.

Not really looking at John, Sherlock speaks around a half-chewed dumpling. "It's all frankly impossible. A jump like that would have shattered every bone in his legs, parkour or no." Regardless, he seems to be enjoying it, as he's settled deeper into the cushions.

John lets out a quiet, brief laugh. "Probably." He tries to watch the movie, leg starting to ache despite John knowing that it is really all in his head and it's just the stress of the night. He wonders when Sherlock will start to get frustrated with the "stupidity" of some of the characters. Maybe he'll stop watching before they get to that point.

Despite John's expectations, Sherlock seems entertained by the movie—for all of about fifteen minutes. Then the phone in his pocket gives a buzz. He wrangles with the food and the phone for a moment before he manages to pull it out.

He frowns when he reads the message, and his eyes flick concernedly over to the other end of the couch, wheels turning furiously. He nearly says something, pouts lightly, then turns back to the phone, looking crossly at the piece of technology as he texts with one hand.

Glancing over briefly, John notes Sherlock's texting. "A case?" He asks hopefully, trying not to sound too hopeful. On the other hand, it could be something entirely different, something that he doesn't want to hear about. John wonders why he bothered asking, sighing and taking another bite of his food, eyes returning to the set.

Sherlock stands rather hastily. "He's dead. The man I hit earlier, that is. Lestrade would like for me to come in." As if it's nothing more concerning than a boiling kettle, he adds: "You'd be a valuable alibi, if you came along."

John tries not to betray any of the happiness he feels at being called in, however oddly it is mixed with dread. "He... what? How?" He stands, taking the last bite of the Chinese and looking around for his coat. "I should at least see the body." A little voice in the back of John's head is saying that he only wants to see it in order to wonder at what Beatrice saw in the man.

Sherlock suspects why John wants to see the body, and he gives a light smirk in reply, pulling on his own coat. "Lestrade is being very tight-lipped about it. Says the less I know about it, the better." Looping the scarf around his neck and heading for the stairs, Sherlock grins in honest. "You had nothing to worry about, anyhow. He was a rather pitiful specimen."

John frowns. Sherlock is doing it again. But it's no matter, at least there is something to do. They take yet another cab back down to the station. John is looking out the window, watching streaks of rain slip down the cab's dirty window. Sherlock's not much for talking once something has caught his attention.

Sherlock has been texting most of the time in the cab. One of them appears to be for John, as his phone buzzes.

_Mycroft tells me that Beatrice is there. You don't have to come if you don't want to see her._

_SH_

Checking his phone with a suspicious glance at Sherlock, John replies verbally, rhetorically. "Well, I'm already on my way, aren't I?" He is trying to be brave.

This is good enough for Sherlock, who grins smugly at his phone.


	4. Chapter 4

When they arrive at the station, they're barely through the door before Beatrice is there, throwing her arms around John's neck, sobbing. Sherlock backs away _very_ quickly, remembering the strength behind those fists.

John stiffens, not sure what to do. "B-Beatrice.." he stutters, uncertainly, looking pleadingly at Sherlock. His hand awkwardly pats her back.

She buries her face in his neck. "John I'm sorry I didn't think and you were never supposed to know and I don't know what happened—"

Sherlock, now over the initial shock of her arrival, frowns deeply at being detained, and gains a bit of backbone. "Come on, John," He prompts tersely.

John seems to wither a little under Sherlock's criticism, but still finds the strength to pull Beatrice to at least arm's length. "Beatrice." he starts uncertainly, picking up speed to a daring finish. "I'm sorry, but I am here to talk to the police, not my ex-girlfriend." He can only make eye contact for a short moment, looking away quickly and dropping his arms, looking to Sherlock to guide him away somewhere safer.

If you were to fill the room with smugness, it still probably couldn't match the smug look on Sherlock's face as he takes John by the wrist and pulls him safely away from Beatrice, who is staring after them with dejected shock written all over her face. Once they're far enough away, Sherlock drops John's wrist and picks up his stride.

"I'd like to be in Lestrade's office by the time she recovers. She might try to hit me again."

He doesn't even seem to register John's discomfort with the situation.

John doesn't disagree, despite the little nagging feeling deep in his stomach. Come on John, she was cheating on you. It doesn't matter if she didn't think you would ever find out. _But she was crying, for god's sake._ But she was two-timing you!

John follows doggedly behind Sherlock, trying to get his spirits up to think about the case, assuming there turns out to be much of one.

Sherlock waltzes into Lestrade's office like he owns it, expecting John to follow. The DI looks up, a bit surprised at the entrance.

"Kenneth McCallister," Sherlock says, taking one of the seats and crossing his leg at the knee, looking not perturbed in the least that the man he attacked is dead. "About 43, give or take a year, in good health. Vegan, practiced maritime law, dog-owner, _boring_. Last seen walking away from a scene in Regent's Park where he was assaulted by Sherlock Holmes for being a _prat_."

Lestrade stares at Sherlock, then at John, then back to Sherlock without saying a word. Flabbergasted.

John follows as quickly as he can, mentally hitting Sherlock for his bluntness. He looks, a bit pleadingly, at Lestrade. "Ah, what he _means_ is that he didn't have anything to do with whatever happened after the last time he saw you. Earlier." _God, Sherlock, can't you see how that would look to a policeman? He already thinks you're unstable enough._

Sherlock smirks tightly at John, perhaps glad that John sticks up for him, even if just a bit. Then, back to Lestrade:

"I have a iron-clad alibi, you'll find it difficult to blame me for this."

Detective Inspector Lestrade looks, typically, frustrated. "Look, Sherlock. You were last seen with this man, Mr. McCallister, at around 6 pm today. At 7:48, we received a call to 999 reporting a corpse, with a tall, trench-coated man seen leaving the scene with his collar turned up." Lestrade angrily throws the packet of related papers onto his desk, leaning back in the chair. "Personally, I can think of no more reasonable suspect!"

John's lips go into a straight line, glancing at Sherlock. Lestrade does have a point.

Sherlock frowns, sitting up straighter. "I was with J-" He pauses, then frowns more deeply. That was most definitely the time period in which he'd taken the tube and John had been in a cab. Anything could have happened.

He pats his pockets, but he'd thrown out his ticket. Of course.

A bit flustered at being taken off-guard, he says, "I was on the tube."

"Oh brilliant." John says, almost at the same time as Sherlock, having come to the same conclusion regarding the timeframe.

Lestrade sighs. "You don't have your ticket, I'm guessing. You're going to have to stay here, then, as a murder suspect. However I will note that you came here yourself." Lestrade starts to write, letting out a long sigh. This is the end of a bad day for him.

Sherlock's done nothing, and he knows it, and yet he can't help but feel anxious at the revelation. Perhaps someone is setting him up. Moriarty? It wasn't anything like his previous attempts, but there was no knowing when he would change his MO, and for what reason. The deductions go lightning fast through his brain, and he's all steel when he looks back up at Lestrade.

"Very well. Can I keep my phone?"

There isn't even so much as a knock as Anderson shoves the door open, craning his neck around in faux astonishment. "I heard the freak finally did it! Are you in as a witness, Watson? Told you he'd snap."

"Er.." John looks uncomfortable, eyes flickering from elated Anderson to concentrating, oblivious Sherlock. "No, not a witness. Sorry." Though he knows that, quite honestly, he could be one day. Given recently.

Lestrade glances at Sherlock's flatmate, though addressing Anderson. "Well, possibly, depending on where you were at the time." The inspector is clearly trying to ignore how abruptly Anderson has butted in. "Anderson, what are you still doing here? Your shift ended fifteen minutes ago."

Anderson grins. "I had to see. Can I take a photo?" He holds up his mobile.

Sherlock frowns intensely, but his voice remains deadpan. "What did your mother inject during pregnancy to render your brain completely unusable, Anderson?"

John looks slightly amused, eyebrows raising though he keeps quiet. Lestrade looks, despite himself, a little amused. "Get out of my office, Anderson." He says, lacking conviction. His tone is light. "Go home and get some rest." He's also trying to avoid a fight between Anderson and Sherlock. Or John, he reflects. That's just as likely.

Anderson, clearly thoroughly upset by the comment about his mum, bristles and doesn't move.

"But you've done it this time, freak, and I hope you go down in _sodding flames_."

"Heroin, was it?" Sherlock asks, narrowing his eyes.

"_You son-of-a-bitch!"_ And Anderson breaks forward at the same time that Sherlock shoots up out of his seat, backing away defensively.

John and Lestrade both spring into motion, but John isn't impeded by a desk so he reaches Anderson first, colliding with him and forcing him back against the wall, looking cold. John's forearm presses against Anderson's windpipe, other arm supporting. Lestrade is standing, looking confused as to what to do, slowly coming around the desk. "Now, John..." He starts uncertainly. You never know with former soldiers.

Sherlock certainly wasn't prepared for that. He takes a horribly long time to register it, and has blinked at least twice as much as is necessary, but recovers quickly. "John, let him go."

Anderson claws uselessly at John's arm, sputtering around the pressure on his windpipe and perhaps ready to explode.

John can't hear Sherlock at first, and he just watches Anderson's eyes. He doesn't blink at all for far too long. Lestrade is coming closer, about to lay a hand on John's shoulder when suddenly, the tension breaks and John's hands are at his side and he is turning around and walking over to a chair. Not sitting, just supporting himself with it a little, closing his eyes briefly and trying to make the images go away.

Lestrade looks Anderson over. He'll be alright. "I think it's time you went home, officer."

Anderson overreacts, naturally and storms from Lestrade's office shouting about pressing charges and how freaks of a feather flock together.

Sherlock doesn't quite put a hand on John's shoulder, because he thinks better of it and retreats before he can. Instead, he only says, "John?" It was a very odd experience, having someone stand up for him. It just doesn't happen. Especially not so violently.

After a moment John looks up, trying to offer a small smile, at least with his mouth if not his eyes. "I'm fine."

Lestrade sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll deal with him. Sherlock, I know you say you didn't do it but until we have a better suspect I am going to need you to stay here. Mr. Watson here will be free to go. He wasn't implicated as an accomplice."

Sherlock attempts to replicate John's expression, but he's not sure how it sits on his face. And then, he gave John an awkward clap on the shoulder before locking his hands behind his back. "Thanks. Thank you, John. You, ah... You can keep an eye on the flat, if you like. I should be fine with Anderson gone. I can keep you updated if Lestrade doesn't take my mobile..."

John looks a little worried, but Lestrade interrupts. "You can keep your mobile." Of course Lestrade isn't really worried, Sherlock may be socially inept but he's not an idiot in any way, shape or form.

"Well, alright. I suppose I'll come back here tomorrow morning?" John looks between Sherlock and Lestrade for confirmation. Lestrade has none.

"I'll be fine, John," Sherlock assures him. "If not bored. Even Scotland Yard can go through the surveillance in the tube stations. They'll find me eventually. A long and wasted night in lockup." He shrugs.

John thinks it odd that Sherlock isn't more indignant at being thrown in there. But he supposes it isn't like his flatmate had anything better to do, other than further irritate John by prodding into his personal life. "Well," John says stiffly, feeling more than a little awkward, "Good night then. I'll see you tomorrow." Looking Sherlock up and down once, John turns to go.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade adds. He is slightly distracted, deciding whether it is better to question Sherlock now or wait for the morning. The morning would mean more time to collect data and thoughts, but that is so for both Sherlock and the police side of things.

Sherlock cocks his head slightly at John's eye sweep, and one corner of his lips twitches up. "Yes, goodnight."

He turns to Lestrade, holding his wrists out in front of him, looking slightly less amused but nonetheless willing to have a bit of fun when the alternative is mind-numbing boredom. "Handcuffs, detective?"

* * *

A/N: Hope you like! Continue to review and things, please, we really appreciate it. :) Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Time for a night scene (hee hee). Please review, thank you for reading! We love to hear what you think. There are a ton of italics in this chapter, my apologies if anything is confusing! Just ask, if you need to. I'll listen.

* * *

Lestrade almost rolls his eyes when Sherlock offers himself up for handcuffs, answering dryly. "No, I think it's probably safe for you to just walk down there with me, don't you?" He opens the door; John had closed it behind him. The others may be convinced, but Lestrade sees no need to give further bait to the likes of Anderson- no offense to the man.

John leaves the station alone, nodding to the man at the desk as he passes and is wished a good evening, sir. Another cab? John is tired of that whole affair, so instead he heads off toward the nearest tube station. Something in the back of his head wants him to follow in Sherlock's earlier footsteps.

* * *

_Circle Line to Embankment, exchange to Bakerloo. Waited six minutes for service to Harrow & Wealdstone. Not crowded, made it home four minutes before you. How does Casino Royale end?_

_SH_

John, sitting on the couch, smirks slightly, habitually glancing over at Sherlock's usual chair before everything clicks and he remembers that the flat is his for the night, and that Sherlock is suspected of murder.

He replies anyway, but though he did continue watching when he got home, he hasn't quite finished Casino Royale so he ignores that part, remembering what he had figured earlier.

_My connection came quicker on my way home your way, only two minutes wait. Between that and the wait for the first line they might think that you had time to go out of your way. This is not good Sherlock._

_JW_

_This is ludicrous. If I'd have murdered anyone, it would have been Beatrice._

_SH_

_How's the situation going, there? Anderson hasn't shown up has he? Are you doing alright?_

_JW_

_Fine. Boring. Donovan took pictures and sent them to half the floor. The woman that Bond is with, she's a plant, isn't she? Is she going to steal the money?_

_SH_

_Double agent. She ends up pointing a gun at Bond near the end. But then Bond's nephew blows the whole place up. Sort of ridiculous really._

_JW_

John is wondering what he is going to do until he falls asleep. It's already close to midnight, but he's too tense to be tired.

_Bond doesn't have a nephew. Or, if he has, it's a poor last-minute plot device. I think I've been set-up, John. There should be no other reason that a man matching my description was seen leaving McCallister's murder. I can't do anything from in here. Don't want to call Mycroft._

_SH_

_I could go look around, but that might look suspicious. Who would be trying to set you up, anyway?_

_JW_

_Moriarty._

_SH_

_Well, I can hope not. Have you... deduced anything else?_

_JW_

John turns off the tele, heading upstairs. Maybe he'll think of something helpful. But probably not.

_Yes. Not about the case, never mind that. Lestrade will go over finer points in the morning. Keep your gun out, if it is Moriarty._

_SH_

_It's probably better, given earlier, that I don't literally keep it out._

_JW_

Another text soon follows.

_I'm going to try to get some sleep._

_JW_

There's a long (for Sherlock) break.

_Fine._

_SH_

John doesn't reply but mentally he adds I'll be here if you need something, of course. Just so long as it doesn't involve going into your bedroom. Never again. But John does intend to sleep, soon.

* * *

It's only shortly after 3AM when John's phone buzzes.

_Call Beatrice. Ask her how many lovers she has on right now._

_SH_

_Sorry, why? And wouldn't she be sleeping?_

_JW_

_Need to know if any of them are tall._

_SH_

John considers replying about how unlikely it is that Beatrice would volunteer that information, but supposes she might be thrilled enough to share if he doesn't seem too mad about the whole thing. And honestly, he's more resigned.

_I can try._

_JW_

He gives a short sigh, dialing her number and holding the phone up to his ear. "Beatrice?"

She's awake, and she's been crying. "John? I thought you didn't w-want to talk to me." She sounds hopeful, but not stupidly so.

"It's fine." He's a little ambiguous, he knows he wouldn't be talking to her if he weren't trying to aid Sherlock. "I just.. wanted to know more. About the people you're seeing." He hesitates. "I mean, other than me. Was it just him?"

She sniffles horribly and the wobbling in her voice starts again. "John, it wasn't—Is this so that psychopath can go around stabbing every bloke in London I've had a fling with?" She's halfway between crying and shouting.

"I- Beatrice- no, it isn't like that." John's head drops slightly, fingertips on his forehead while he concentrates on the conversation. "I just.." He tries to sound genuine, even though it's a little painful. Maybe it only hurts because it's more than a little true. "I just need to know. For me."

Beatrice gives herself a moment, and speaks through the end of a sob. "Two other blokes. Wally and Tom. It's nothing against you, John, really it's not. I really like you." She blows her nose.

_Then why are you seeing them?_ John asks in his head, getting a bit bitter for a moment. "I mean.. well.. what are they like? I guess I'm just curious." _LIE LIE LIE_ his brain shouts, but he tries to shut it out. It's for the case. It's for Sherlock.

There's another long pause, sniff. "John, it's late. Why're you asking me this? Tell me the truth."

"I woke up... and I thought you might still be awake, too. Just because of... how today went." He's dancing around the answer a little, but it's all genuine and she shouldn't notice. "My world has basically been thrown for a whole loop." He manages a little smile at this, though she can't see it of course.

Beatrice gives the tiniest, saddest little laugh and blows her nose again. "All right, okay. Wally's the manager at the Pret in Trafalgar Square, not much but he's real funny. Tom's off a job now, but he does music at his friend's studio flat in Chelsea on weekends."

John is a little boggled by the scope of keeping four lovers at once, all not knowing of the others. Though looking back he can see how he just thought she was pretty busy all the time, so it could have worked like that. "Oh yeah, what do you see in them?" John asks, trying to cover up his hurt with a small joke. "are they taller than me or something?" He lets out a short laugh.

"Wally's a beanpole, yeah," she laughs tearfully. "John, listen, I think we can still make this work, if you want to. Keep that weird, nosy flatmate out of it, and I think we could."

"I.. don't know, Beatrice." John in back on the level and glad to be. "I mean you realize you were.. cheating on me. Who were you even dating first...?" He's curious now, and a little emotional, but lucid enough to remember to switch the call to speakerphone and silently hit off a text to Sherlock.

_She says Wally, who manages the Pret in Trafalgar Square, is tall. JW_ He doesn't mention how hard this conversation has been for him, but he hopes that Sherlock isn't too thick to have though of that. However unlikely this hope is.

"It was... John, it doesn't matter! I can leave off Wally and Tom, I really can."

The phone buzzes.

_Excellent. Thank you. Brilliant._

_SH_

A pause from Beatrice's line. "John? Have you got me on speakerphone? What was that noise?"

"Sorry, yeah. Just my phone buzzing. Didn't want to have to hold it up to my ear the whole time." John lets out a long sigh, dropping the bombshell. "I don't feel comfortable continuing a relationship in which I've been.. cheated on. More than once, and for no real reason."

There's quite a long pause from the other end of the phone, and without another word, she disconnects.

Another text comes through quickly.

_While you're up, could you check on the houseflies in jar in the fridge? Seven were dead this morning, I need to know if the number's gone up._

_SH_

And then another.

_You were asleep. But you called her anyway._

_SH_

"Beatrice?" John moves the phone, glancing at it and realizing that she's ended the call. "Well, that's that." He mutters quietly to himself, frowning and starting to read Sherlock's texts.

_I'm in my bed. Can the flies wait till morning, Sherlock? Or at least till after sunrise?_

_JW_

He ignores the other one, slouching back into bed.

_Fine. But you'll send a text when you wake up proper. Do we have the next Bond film?_

_SH_

_I don't think we have another, no. Aren't you more worried about getting out of lockup, Sherlock?_

_JW_

Within a few seconds,_ Never mind, what ever. I'm going to try to sleep some more. JW_

_Goodnight, John._

_SH_

And with that, Sherlock finally puts a call in to Mycroft.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Hi! This chapter isn't the most interesting as far as chapters go, I realize, but don't worry. Action is coming soon! And this was important. you'll see. ;)

As always thank you for reading, and for your kind review! (otherwise I don't know you exist- which would be sad. D: )

* * *

John wakes up, managing to roll out of bed, shower, and dress before he looks at his phone, noticing Sherlock's goodnight text and getting a sharp jolt of a reality check. Sherlock accused of murder. Beatrice cheating. That dead man.

It's a little past eight in the morning so he heads out onto the street, shrugging on a jacket over his sweater-vest. It's cold out, probably below freezing. He takes the tube again. It feels a little weird, instead of his usual cab, but Sherlock _has_ proven that it's faster. John realizes he hasn't texted Sherlock yet, and pulls out his phone.

_I'm on the tube, just so you know. Anything new?_

_JW_

_John, did you check the flies? You'll call your ex-girlfriend at three in the morning for me, but glancing at the jar of houseflies whilst you reach for the milk is too much to ask?_

_SH_

_Oh, damn. I forgot. Wasn't even in the kitchen this morning. Sorry. And so you know, Beatrice and I did have a talk. It wasn't just for the info._

_JW_

_Of course. You are the epitome of subtlety and wit. Donovan's brought doughnuts in this morning, should be some in the break room. You're not your best when you skip breakfast._

_SH_

_I'll consider it._

_JW_

John always gets a little ruffled when Sherlock reads him like that, but he finds it more interesting and less disturbing than the next person. Soon he's walking through the station's doors. Lestrade appears to have just arrived back at the station, and he is behind the check-in desk looking through what are presumably files on what has happened while he has been off of work, sleeping. He gives John a small nod.

"Good morning. I thought you'd probably be here soon. I can let you in to see Sherlock?"

"Yes, please." John answers, letting himself be led down the hallways by a younger officer whom Lestrade dispatches. He sees dreaded Anderson along the way, at a desk, and they have a short moment of eye contact before both break away. It isn't certain who gave in first.

* * *

Sherlock hasn't slept. He rarely does. He looks none-the-worse for it, even if he is behind bars. He's on what passes for a bed, his head hanging over the side and his legs up the wall, crossed casually at the ankle. He's texting upside-down, and his eyes tick up over his phone when the footsteps arrive.

"Someone get him coffee, at least," Sherlock says to the room.

John looks over at the officer who brought him here, and the man nods with an understanding smile, turning to (presumably) come back with some.

"So how was the night, uneventful?" John looks momentarily amused, thinking of what other sorts of people could have been brought in during the night.

Sherlock finishes the text and send it off, placing the phone on the bed beside him and folding his hands on his chest, not moving from his position. "Boring. Even deducing the life-stories of all of my guards was over in twenty minutes, tops. Every one of them, supremely dull."

He sighs, flicks his eyes over John, then returns to staring at the ceiling. "I've spoken to Mycroft, but Wallace Rice didn't show for work this morning. My case is looking better and better."

"Mycroft? About what, getting you out of here?" John glances around the cell, adjusting his weight. "I don't really think that makes your case any better as far as Lestrade is concerned..."

Sherlock makes a catlike move from the bed and hops to, crossing to the bars quickly to stare John down.

"Mycroft is looking for Wallace Rice, a tall, dark-haired man who had motive for killing Kenneth McCallister and whose schedule was gloriously free at the time of the murder. He hasn't shown for work, which shows that he either knows that he could be suspect or that he's plagued with too much guilt to get through the front door. Lestrade will have someone going through surveillance at Baker Street, I'll be out of here before lunch."

He grips the bars from the inside and smirks behind them.

"I was thinking tikka masala."

John narrows his eyes slightly. "Yes, but what _is_ his motive? He knew about Beatrice...?" There is a long pause. "And how is it Moriarty if this man had his own motive?"

Sherlock's smile falls away, not quite into a frown. "I never rule out Moriarty's involvement. Not until I have every reason to." He gives a light sigh, looks away as if in impatience. "I assume that just as easily as I could find out about Beatrice's involvement with other men, so could anyone else with a cerebral cortex." For a moment the grin is back. "No offense, John."

John breathes out through his nose, his eyes drop away from Sherlock's. "Of course."

Just then, Lestrade makes his entrance, trailing the officer that John had almost forgotten about sending for coffee. John takes the coffee with thanks, as the anonymous officer moves to unlock Sherlock. Lestrade nods to the pair.

"Sherlock, if you wish you can have a witness in the room while I interview you about your version of events." He is all business, though the weary look in his eyes points to him knowing that the worst is yet to come.

Sherlock perks up instantly. "Yes, of course. If John doesn't mind?" He's already stepped out of the cell, having fetched his coat and phone, and looking down his nose at John.

It would take an idiot not to notice John's mood change, and Sherlock frowns slightly.

"All right?"

"What?" John seems to have been dazed out of his own thoughts, taking a second to catch up. "Oh, right, sure. Witness." Lestrade speaks up before John or Sherlock can talk again, perhaps sensing the tension but perhaps just trying to expediently get things done.

"Okay, come on. We'll be right down the hall." The way he gestures is back where John came from, and John starts to wonder who else will be in the room. This could go very badly, or.. well, decently alright.

Sherlock follows wordlessly, coat slung over his arm and gesturing for John to follow. Thankfully, Anderson isn't waiting in hiding for them to emerge, but their presence from lockup certainly doesn't go unnoticed. A few whispers of "that bloke in the photo" are loud enough to hear, and Sherlock either doesn't notice or doesn't really care.

"Did you get a call from my brother, by any chance, Lestrade?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes, isn't it? He said you had something to say about some sort of... secondary lover, to the woman whose boyfriend was killed."

John is tuning out the conversation, or trying to. He shoots looks at the whisperers, daring them to be more bold about their identification of Sherlock. The mini-convoy is at the door of the room, and John slips in last. It is a rather drab affair, whitish grey paint merging with similar floors and ceiling. One table in the middle, two chairs on each side. John assumes he'll be expected to sit next to Sherlock. But who would be with Lestrade, then? He brushes the thought away, trying to pay attention again. Not that anyone is likely to have noticed his lack of participation.

A body appears behind John, accompanied by Donovan's familiar voice. "Budge up, there, Doctor Watson," she says rather kindly. Not maliciously, anyhow. She scoots by him through the door to join Lestrade across the table, looking thoroughly smug when she stares at Sherlock.

"Got your big brother to call in for you? I knew we shouldn't'a let him keep his mobile."

"I'd have hung myself from boredom," Sherlock intones darkly, dropping into his seat unceremoniously.

"Oh, sorry," John says almost inaudibly. She has already passed, of course, and probably doesn't hear it. He joins the others in his seat.

Lestrade briefly acknowledges Donovan, nodding. "Good morning. So, down to business?" There is a brief pause as he arranges his papers and takes out a pen. "Mr. Holmes, could you please share with me what you were doing between half seven and eight in the evening, last night, and who you were with?"

"We already know that I have no one who can confirm my innocence, but," Sherlock smirks condescendingly, "I was on the tube home. To hide the tea from John because I was cross."

Donovan scowls, eyes flicking between the two men across from her, and finally curls her lip as if at her own sick joke. "That's domestic abuse we could get him on, too, sir."

John interrupts, ruffled. "Domestic abuse? I don't think that that's really applicable."

Lestrade is writing it down anyway. "You say you were cross at the time? Where else did you go on your way home- just the station?" Lestrade notes how many blocks there are between the connecting platform that Sherlock would have used, and the place where the body was found. Two.

Sherlock frowns. "I waited on the platform. I was harassed by a homeless man attempting to shove Big Issue down my throat. There were three schoolgirls on the platform who wouldn't cease their giggling, and one was dared to attempt to speak to me, which she didn't. Six businessmen, all of them occupied with the newspaper or their shoes, one of which was returning home after a tryst with his secretary—his male secretary, going by the stain on his lapel—"

"Does he ever stop?" Donovan asks John, interrupting incredulously.

Lestrade interrupts at the same time. "I'll just put that you have clear memories of the train platform. You say that you did not go anywhere else but the platform area?" He's trying to keep this on track, John can see, so he keeps his mouth shut.

"No. I didn't want to miss the train. If I did, John would have been home before me and all plans to hamstring his tea would have been fruitless." He taps his fingers on the table, not looking over at John.

"Doctor Watson," Donovan cuts in, looking at her papers, "when can you confirm seeing Mister Holmes at Baker Street?"

"Er.. I can't say I was particularly looking at the time, but probably at about eight. Not much later than that. We were.. inside the apartment. He had been there for a little while already." John is remembering the evening and realizing that he really, really doesn't want to have to go into it with these police officers. They.. wouldn't understand.

Lestrade gives John and Sherlock a look. "And Mr. Watson, what were _you_ doing between half seven and eight?"

"I was in the cab from here to our flat." He answers simply, glancing at Sherlock.

Donovan is still looking at John, and leans in confidentially as if Sherlock isn't there. "D'you reckon he did it, Watson? He was in here for cracking that man real good in the jaw just an hour before he ends up dead. In fact, it was _your_ girlfriend's other man what got murdered, how d'we know you didn't ask the Freak to do it for you?"

"Donovan," Sherlock growls harshly through his teeth, and his fingers are clamped on the edge of the table to keep them from perhaps hitting her too.

John answers very stiffly, staring her down. "No, Donovan, I don't think that Sherlock did anything. Or that he _would_ do anything like that. No matter how much you seem to think it's just a matter of time." John doesn't want to cause an incident, and he tries to reassure Sherlock with a look, through a long and pointed silence. "Anyway?"

Lestrade looks a little suspiciously between John and Sherlock. He isn't sure anymore about this case.

Sherlock loosens his rage at Donovan just long enough to fix John with a tweak of a thankful smirk, and then it's gone as he turns back to the officers.

Donovan sighs through her nose, shuffles through the papers. "All right, says your brother's secretary put a call in this morning about a possible second suspect. What d'you two know about this Wallace Rice?"

John blinks. "Well, I didn't even know that he existed until last night. Well.. this morning."

Lestrade looks interested. "Go on."

"Beatrice told me that he was tall, dark hair, and was the manager of... some sandwich shop. Pret, I think it was? And apparently he was.. is.. one of her other.." he manages to cough out the word. "Lovers."

"Sod," Sherlock can't help from blurting angrily, and to cover it up, he sinks lower in his chair and crosses his arms. "I think you'll find that I'm not the only man over six feet in London, officers."

Donovan sneers, but she's clearly the underling in this operation, and so she keeps her mouth shut. She heard what had happened to Anderson.

Lestrade might be smirking. "Yes, thank you. Well, I think we might be done here now, though of course there could be further questioning as the situation progresses." He's back into police-speak, glancing at his watch. John sits up a little straighter.

"Let's leave now, shall we?" Sherlock asks, turning to John. "You haven't eaten, and you'll be irratable and generally insufferable until you get something in your system. Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson's making us a 'proper breakfast'." He smiles a bit wistfully, looking away to the door. "And we can finish that film. Come on, John!" And he's already out the door, walking briskly.

"It's gonna be you, next," Donovan warns seriously, shaking her head.


	7. Chapter 7

_"It's gonna be you, next," Donovan warns seriously, shaking her head._

John might not have heard her for all he reacts, and he goes quickly out of the room, trying to catch up with Sherlock's sure strides. "Sherlock, what about the case?" He asks plaintively.

Sherlock rounds quickly to pin John with a serious stare, and Sherlock presses a single digit to his own lips before turning back for the doors and striding confidently out. "We mustn't disappoint Mrs. Hudson and let breakfast get cold."

John's eyebrows contort themselves into a confused but accepting look "Well- alright-" and he follows after Sherlock once again. He assumes they are headed for the tubes. "Breakfast. Right." His stomach is starting to alert him of his plight, anyhow.

Once outside, Sherlock sends a look over his shoulder at the building, at all of the surveillance cameras surrounding them, and finally speaks in a very low voice so as to remain unheard. "Go have breakfast, tell Mrs. Hudson I'll be there presently."

John doesn't look happy about this. "No, I'm coming with you. What on earth are you doing? The minute you do something odd-" He pauses. "Well, odder than your _usual_, they'll have you back in there."

There's a long moment where Sherlock stares John down, trying to get a read off him, and finally lets a low smirk bloom on his face. "Yes, all right." Sherlock holds up a hand to hail a cab. "Once again, I'm doing Lestrade's job for him. We're looking for Wallace Rice."

John brightens up immediately, smiling in return. He remembers the food. "Rice's workplace, then?" John slips into the cab Sherlock has hailed.

"Obviously not," Sherlock says, climbing in beside John. He gives the cabbie an address on Tottenham Court Road before leaning back deep into the seat. "I will be owing my brother a rather embarrassingly large favor for everything he's done for me, but nevermind that. We're headed to Rice's flat."

John wonders exactly what sorts of favors are asked by Mycroft, but rather thinks he doesn't want to know. Lost in thought about that, he doesn't find anything much to ask Sherlock other than the obvious. "How did you find his flat...?"

Sherlock gives John a dull look that says _Mycroft, idiot_ before he turns to look out the window. "If he's not there, we'll have to break in. He could already be halfway to Leeds if he wanted to."

John looks worriedly toward the front of the cab, but the partition is up so they are probably unheard. Sherlock must have already.. deduced that. "And what are we hoping to find, exactly? It's not like there'll be a, a murder weapon lying around."

"Never eliminate what you can't confirm, John," Sherlock says. "Murder weapon, evidence of his presence in Holburn when McCallister was killed, the coat that's similar to mine: anything that could prove useful in a case helpful to me and hindering to him." He pauses, his thumb on his lip in thought. "Not sure what we'll do if he _is_ there."

John concentrates. "Well, we could say that I just wanted to meet him. Though.. if Moriarty _is_ involved, that might not go well."

At the mention of Moriarty, the playfulness of the case drains out of Sherlock's eyes and he goes strangely silent. "Yes," is all he says, and his gaze is locked steadily on nothing in particular out the window of the cab.

* * *

They arrive outside the address Sherlock had specified, and John reluctantly pays. Spending money, what spending money?

It is three stories, and they all look to be residential. Brown paint, peeling of course. London is getting old, in parts. The roof is flat, fire escape winding down the building's left side, stopping with a floor to go (it's collapsible). John glances at Sherlock, knowing that the other man will know what to do sooner than John would.

Sherlock surveys the location briskly, then turns his head to John. "Go to the front door. Number twenty-seven. If he's home, engage him in conversation to keep his attention. If he's not at home, text me." He rests his hand on John's shoulder briefly, instilling confidence, and then leaps up to grab the fire escape and begin his climb.

John frowns slightly, obeying anyway. He ascends the steps (one two three four) and knocks, looking around as he waits. He is not certain about this. And how long does Sherlock think John will be able to keep the man out of his apartment if he's home, anyway?

The silence gets uncomfortably long, so John tries to inconspicuously take out his phone.

_Not home, or at least not answering the door. Let me in?_

_JW_

After a moment, there's a loud screech and a bang, followed by nearly a minute of nothing.

Then at last, the front door unlatches and Sherlock opens it from the inside. "No one home. He's taken the opportunity to tidy up, it stinks of bleach. You take the kitchen. Look for any sort of large knife. Wear your gloves." And he disappears back inside, heading for Rice's bedroom. "And latch the door behind you."

John follows, awkwardly trying to fish his gloves from his coat pocket. He glances around the impeccably clean flat, putting them on. So this is where Beatrice spent some of her nights. _Stop thinking that. That is helping nothing._ The sane voice in his head scolds.

Hearing the creak of some cabinet or door Sherlock must have opened, John enters and surveys the kitchen, opening a cupboard with a gloved hand. Plates, bowls, cups. Nothing unusual. Closing everything after himself, John slowly wanders the perimeter of the room. In the center is a little island containing a sink, some counter space, and a dishwasher. He'll get to that soon.

_How's it coming? JW_ He texts Sherlock, pausing for a moment. He'd just yell but somehow he doubts that would be appropriate.

There's no answer from Sherlock, and the noise from his search has ceased completely.

"John," his voice comes at last from McCallister's bedroom, and it's not as steady as it usually is. It's not his normal disinterested level of detachment he usually saves for these sort of cases. But it's not new. It's almost the same sort of sound he made at the pool.

"Yes?" John calls in reply, straightening up from the cupboard he had bent to peer into. He turns and quickly goes the length of the hallway, looking for which room Sherlock is in. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock is standing in the middle of McCallister's room, having figured out the combination to the electronic safe under the man's bed. He's holding photos in his gloved hand, and his normally unreadable is written over in gray anxiety. He flicks his eyes up when he sees John, and he holds up the photos wordlessly.

They're all of John and Beatrice.

John stops stock-still when he sees what it is. He just stares. "Sherlock... why would...?" His mouth opens and then closes again. "Wh...?"

Sherlock presses his lips into a firm line and drops the photos on the bed. "I've made a mistake. We shouldn't be here. _Stupid_." He takes a step back, examines the situation with horrifyingly wide eyes. "I've completely misread the situation. It's not a frame-job, just unhappy coincidence. John, we need—" And he gives John an agonizing look (the _I don't have to_ look when John tells him what it's like to feel like he's dying). And he's moved past John and back out into the foyer, looking about as if expecting villains to leap from every corner.

John rubs a hand across his face, forgetting that it is gloved. "Alright, so we leave. No harm done.

Just then, he hears the unmistakable slam of a car door just outside the building that they are in. Balking, John turns and looks for another exit. He catches a glimpse in the window and sees that outside, are the police.

Sherlock snaps his eyes shut for an agonizingly long moment, and when he opens them again, he has John by the arm and is dragging him to the door. "Into the hallway, turn right, then left; back set of stairs. Detour onto the second floor, wait five minutes, then out into the alley." He looks slightly frantic, and grips John's arm. "Got it?"

"Five minutes?" John starts to object, eyes searching Sherlock's. He suddenly realizes. "You aren't coming with me." He frowns. "That's absurd, come on now."

Voices are heard outside, it sounds like a female and a male. Donovan almost for sure, then, and... Lestrade? Oh honestly, as if this weren't looking worse and worse.

And now Sherlock seems almost furious. "McCallister's description fits mine almost perfectly. Don't be an _idiot, John_." He snaps the last and jerks John by the arm for effect. He stumbles on a word, forgets it and moves on. "Out the door. _Now_." And he's heading for the window, tucking his scarf into his pocket and pulling the wide collar up to hide his face.

John almost trips in his hurry to follow Sherlock's instructions. Hall, right, left, up. Wait. It is the waiting that will be hard. He is tense, remembering long days of stakeouts. This isn't so different, only shorter. His hand falls to an inside pocket, checking and reassuring himself that something is still in it.

* * *

Lestrade, shoulders hunched slightly in the cold, strides long, reaches the building's front step, peering in to check the number. It is only fair to follow up on Sherlock's comments, though the man himself is still a viable suspect given the history. Lestrade rings the doorbell, waiting.

Donovan sighs harshly; she quite obviously doesn't want to be here. "We could'a just arrested the Freak, y'know. Saved us the legwork." Nevertheless, she respects Lestrade and does whatever he asks. It's just bloody cold.

High above them on the fire escape, there's a sudden noise of feet dropping onto the metal catwalk. It's a man matching Rice's description: in a long dark coat, with a knit cap on his head and the high collar of the coat obscuring the man's face. He gives the police a long hard look, and suddenly he's running up the fire escape. Noisily.

Lestrade gives a split second's thought, then eyes the fire escape. "That must be Wallace." He takes off, unusual exuberance showing itself as he refuses to lose the man he is looking for, taking the fire escape's steps two at a time.

John's ears are open and he hears the loud clanking noise and a shout that could only be the police in chase of someone. Screwing his eyes shut for a moment, he takes a deep breath. Five minutes, did Sherlock say? Or two?

Sherlock reaches the roof long before anyone can possibly follow him, and he takes scope of his surroundings very quickly. Lead them away from the back alley, that venue is closed off for him. Other way then, to the next row of flats. He waits until he can see Lestrade's head peek up over the edge of the roof before he takes a flying leap down to the next roof, landing with a jarring thump but refusing to let the blow take him. He makes a beeline for the ladder on the far edge of the new roof.

Donovan gives a curse, stowing her gun and turns to their backup, directing them in the direction that Sherlock is running, before she follows Lestrade up the fire escape.

Lestrade makes the roof, following the other man. Rice? He is surprisingly athletic but even so he almost thinks this is too easy. The man, presumably Wallace,'s strides are so long that he should be getting away easily. Nevertheless Lestrade quickly judges the jump then makes it, crouching on impact then springing up again to resume. It looks like the man is getting back to street level. "Stop! Police!" It's worth a try.

John is waiting, counting seconds. Is it long enough? He peers around the corner he will be taking to leave. Nothing.

Sherlock doesn't turn (if they see his face, it's over), instead vaults for the ladder and rockets down as quickly as he can. Away from the building, away from John. The alley is a good three floors below him, and the fie escape will take a hell of a long time, but he doesn't fancy a broken leg, so he winds down the catwalk at lightning speeds.

Donovan has her gun out when she reaches the roof after Lestrade, but she falters at the edge of the building, peering down with growing dread at the place he's leapt to. Oh, this is no time for vertigo to kick in, but she feels slightly nauseous.

Lestrade glances back at Donovan. "Come on!" He calls back. But it's fine if she lags, he knows she has called backup, and this Wallace will have some time explaining why he was fleeing the police. Lestrade glances down, following quickly. "He's heading onto the street" He shouts.

John can hear loud voices, shoes thundering on the roof above his head. He edges out around the corner, trying to look inconspicuous, and pulls open the back door, out it before anyone would have time to see. He wanders down the alley before melding into the street's traffic.

Sherlock knows the streets like he owns them, and once he's sure that he's being followed away from John's escape route, he ducks into a dark alley, shimmies up another ladder and tucks himself into the shadows atop a short building. He is ready to spring back into running if he has to, but he's completely silent and steady.

Donovan braces herself, gives a loud curse, and makes the jump. She's unsteady, goes to one knee, and despite her shaking limbs manages to stand and follow Lestrade. "Is that Rice? Are we authorized to shoot?"

"No shooting, no." He is looking left and right, half-paying attention to Donovan. "Damn it, where did he go?" Lestrade is walking quickly, still moving though he has lost sight of the elusive figure. "Did you see?"

John is gone, and he takes out his phone. Hopefully Sherlock has gotten away unscathed. But it can't be sure yet. He is afraid to send a text; even a phone's vibrations could.. pose problems. John wonders if he is being paranoid.

Donovan frowns. "No, I was too busy fearing for my life. I don't usually have to chase any perps over bloody rooftops. I've got backup posted at the end of this apartment block, but how long d'you want to stick around if we can't fox 'em out?"

Sherlock smirks slightly from his hiding place, watching noiselessly as he waits for the officers to pass underneath him and double back. Perhaps he should stay here, just until all the officers have gone. But he knows John, and he knows that if there's no word from him for too long, he'll do something bravely stupid.

So, Sherlock waits until he's sure the alley below him is clear for the moment and quickly sends off a text.

_Hiding from Lestrade. Safe. Go home, tell Mrs. Hudson I'll be after. Thank you for listening for once._

_SH_

Lestrade lets out a heavy sigh, continuing to walk, but with less purpose now. "We seem to have lost him. Report we need a 24/7 discreet watch on Rice's house. he'll probably return sooner or later." This isn't really a great start to the morning...

John's phone buzzes just as he thinks about it. He judges the distance and decides to just walk home. It won't be more than ten minutes, tops.

_I'm walking home. See you there. Don't do anything stupid._

_JW_

* * *

AN: Epic chase scene! Well, a chase scene at least. Just close your eyes and imagine the AWESOME London rooftops they have in the show. So great. As always thanks for the reviews, faves, and alerts! They are our lifeblood! Well not really. But you know. Sorry this one took longer to get up- I have no excuse. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Hi everybody, thank you for your alerts and favourites but ESPECIALLY reviews! There are probably going to be only a few more chapters of this particular story arc (eleven total? not sure), so keep reading!

* * *

_I'm walking home. See you there. Don't do anything rash._

_JW_

Sherlock waits another eleven minutes while uniformed officers prowl at the behest of Lestrade, and they finally taper off, giving Sherlock the chance to flit away unseen. Once out of the vicinity of the apartment block, he throws the knit cap into a bin and winds his scarf back around his throat, very pleased with himself.

_Your faith in me is duly noted, John. Are there any bangers left?_

_SH_

John pulls out his phone, worriedly glancing at Mrs. Hudson. She has insisted that he wait downstairs with her until Sherlock gets back, after he requests breakfast for the two of them. She thinks that the idea is quaint, and "So darling of you!" which John quietly tolerates. It isn't worth it to try to deny her her assumptions.

_Mrs. Hudson wants me to wait for you so we can eat upstairs together._

_JW_

John's less-than-amused tone is evident in the text.

Mrs. Hudson comes out, beaming, with a small platter of food for them, talking on and on about nothing he is listening to. "Thanks, yeah. I'm sure we'll both love it." He tries to smile a little at least and heads upstairs, closing the door behind him with a shoulder before putting the food down. Sherlock will be any minute, so he gets out plates.

Sherlock is grinning, and once he remembers John isn't there to see it, he extinguishes it and cracks off another text.

_How domestic. You may start without me. ETA two minutes._

_SH_

He pockets his phone, gives a quick look for any uniforms prowling the streets, and gives a single nonchalant hop-skip in the direction of Baker Street.

* * *

John makes a face, crossing his arms and waiting, leans against the counter. Damned if Sherlock was going to control him. He stares down the food and is just moving to take and fill his plate when he hears Sherlock open the main front door.

Sherlock hangs his coat up by the door, listens for movement and once he seems satisfied, Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and peers directly into the kitchen from the landing. His eyes fall on the food, then on John. "I told you that you should start without me. It's been three hours without food for you, and you're going to start shouting at me if you don't eat something."

"I'd be fine." John comments offhandedly, finishing serving himself and wandering out to the living room where he knows Sherlock will end up sitting to eat. "But where did you go to lose them, anyway?"

Sherlock helps himself, though his own serving looks meager, leaning on the doorway to the sitting room. "Not far." He pokes around at his food before getting his first bite. "It took a bit of acrobatics on my part, but I managed a little niche on the roof, in the shadow of a larger building." He doesn't sit, glances over at John. "No trouble for you?"

A short pause. "None. No company. Why do you think they showed up, to investigate what you said?" John takes a bite or two of eggs, waiting for the inevitable deductions.

"Possible. Lestrade listens, occasionally, when I tell him he's wrong. If that's the case, they'll have Rice's flat staked out in usual obtrusive fashion." He takes a moment for another bite. "I doubt they followed us there, or else they would have come looking for you. Or have sent someone here to intercept us."

He swirls his eggs around on his plate. "John, the thought has occurred to me that McCallister was only Rice's first victim, and it was only chance that he was the man I'd assaulted. It has absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. And her last remaining lover."

John looks confused. "You don't think.. Rice is really the killer? He's not even in town, I..." The pieces start to fit in his mind now, as they had in Sherlock's seconds after he saw the photographs in Rice's room. "Do you think Beatrice knows...?"

Sherlock is looking furiously at his place. "Hard to tell. I haven't spoken to her since she hit me. Likely not, but she may begin to get the hint if another man shows up dead." He sighs through his nose.

John feels a little relieved that Sherlock thinks Beatrice at least to be innocent. Why he still cares? He doesn't know. He supposes they _had_ been dating for a few months. The veteran tries to smile. "So what's planned for the rest of the day?" He asks dryly, picking at his food.

Sherlock finally looks up and he's blinking at John as if he's the biggest idiot he's ever met. "Avoiding the machinations of a murderer, if it's not too much trouble for you, John."

John gives a faint smile. He, oddly enough, doesn't feel _too_ nervous. "Won't you get bored, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gives up and utters a light laugh. "Oh, no. Finish up." He sets his unfinished plate down indiscriminately. "We're heading out. Bring a duffel bag."

"Where are we going?" John does so, looking chipper. His brightly colored vest might not have been the best choice for the hiding they had to do earlier, but it certainly complements his expressions.

"Diogenes Club," Sherlock says with slight distaste. "I know London backward and forward, but my brother can make it safe. And safe, while dull, is what you need to be." He throws John's coat in his direction.

John's expression drops. "Sherlock, I am in no more danger than you are on a usual day. Honestly." He catches the coat, putting it down as he stands to do away with his plate. "There is no need for me to 'hide out'."

Sherlock rounds on him, looking extremely displeased. He strides into the kitchen to meet him, staring him down. "I know you're hard to kill, John, and I'm very hard to fool. But the man is smart enough to use me as a decoy, and jealousy is a very strong motivator." And he frowns strongly. "I'd be very cross if he did manage to kill you."

John frowns, finishing cleaning up. "Well, I still don't think that my hiding out indefinitely is going to help anything. Honestly Sherlock. I'm not some sort of easily-amused.." He tries to think of something. "..rabbit."

Sherlock tries very hard not to smirk at the image, and he does very well, only flickering amusement in his eyes. "Well, you're the man of action. What would you do? Lure him into the open with some selfless act? It's very soldierly of you, John."

John fixes Sherlock with what passes for a glare. "Well, I wouldn't hide in a hole and hope it all goes away."

Sherlock could bite back, and they'd back to their routine, but this wasn't the time for petty arguments. So Sherlock takes a step back, pulls a small frown. "All right."

John frowns further, perhaps confused. "Well, good. So have you deduced where Rice would have gone?" He figures that this was a pretty obvious question to ask.

Sherlock's looking at his feet, leans back so he's sitting on the kitchen table, and shakes his head. "I haven't been thinking about it."

John narrows his eyes, peering at Sherlock. "You alright?" he leans against the opposing wall, crossing his arms across sweatered chest. It's sort of a stupid question as far as Sherlock goes, but oh well. He dismally tries to think of things Sherlock likes to do. With another person. "We could.. go out to the park, or... play chess, or something later."

Sherlock pulls himself together quickly with a sharp intake of breath. "Fine. I don't want to stay here. If Rice is looking for you, this is the first place he'll go."

John looks quizzical. "Then why not let him find us? Better to choose the location ourselves." Easy military logic. His face seeks reassurance from Sherlock.

Sherlock looks extremely unsure, though about what is not completely evident. Then, in a quieter voice, looking to the window, he says, "We should tell Mrs. Hudson to clear off, then. Don't want her getting mixed up in this."

John silently agrees, starting to see that this situation, being personal to one of them, is more precarious than the usual cases Sherlock takes. "Yeah. D'you want to go down and tell her.. something?" He knows that Sherlock probably has something plausible in his head already.

Sherlock gives a brief huff of derision and at last shoves off from the table. "Yes, all right. Get your gun." He lopes off for the door to the stairwell, at least halfway tense.

John doesn't move; he already has it on him. Probably wasn't the best choice, having been at the police station, but oh well. It's habit. He watches Sherlock leave for downstairs and wonders if his flatmate is normally this... stiff. Letting out a small sigh, John collapses into an armchair. This is one long morning. He closes his eyes and tries to listen downstairs.

Sherlock knocks politely on Mrs. Hudson's door, and once she's answered he makes up a tale about Mrs. Turner next door asking for her help with a stew (less of a lie than it should be; he could smell the stew when he was walking up Baker Street. She kindly thanks him and bundles out the door presently.

The detective lingers downstairs for a while longer, getting his wits about him. It certainly does no help to John to get overly involved. Treat it as though it's just another idiot under threat from a vengeful boyfriend. That certainly helps.

John remains slouched in the chair, but as he hears the door shut- Mrs. Hudson leaving, he guesses- his eyes open and he stares at the ceiling. Sherlock will be back up soon, he figures. Just then he hears a dull thud from somewhere on the next floor up. Maybe something fell in Sherlock's room... John is occupied thinking about other things. He can still hardly believe that Beatrice would.. would do this.

Sherlock makes it back up the stairs, and he certainly looks less stiff and awkward, but he's still not smirking. He hardly acknowledges John, taking a quick look around the flat for any points of entry. "John, could you put the kettle on?"

"Mm." John answers, bored and unprotesting. He gets up and wanders into the kitchen, retrieving a usable kettle from under the sink. The last one has gone the way of the trash since Sherlock "tried" to use it. "How long will she be gone?" He calls back over his shoulder, turned away from the doorway.

Neither of them knows it, but a man of about Sherlock's height is silently coming down the hallway, having descended the stairs already. He is holding a bit of cloth.

"The current untruth will likely keep for several hours, but not all day. She will undoubtedly find something inane to converse with Mrs. Turner about, that could give us a few more. But it's not forever, John." Sherlock is staring concernedly out the windows, and is considering checking their rooms for sign of intrusion.

He has turned the water on, slightly raising his voice over the noise of it flowing into the kettle. "Well, what would you recommend doing?"

The intruder, Rice, has backed his way down the hallway, sequestering himself away in a little junk-filled nook that probably neither Sherlock nor John ever thinks about. The only way into it is from that hallway, of course. Not even a window. He crouches, listening for the taller man to finally _leave_.

Sherlock checks over his shoulder to be sure John is still in the kitchen, then runs two frustrated hands through his hair. "I don't know," he says, and it's clipped. "I'm checking upstairs. And locking your window." He moves brusquely for the stairs, wanting to be quick.

John turns briefly, shooting a worried look toward the sitting room. "Alright, I'll be here." He carries the kettle over to the stove round, and turns it on, letting out another sigh as he stands there for a moment and stares out the window, looking down on the bustling streets of a fog-filled, ten AM London. John reaches to get them a couple of mugs to use.

He barely hears a sound out of the ordinary when suddenly someone is behind him, an arm is around his neck. He is about to shout, struggling for his concealed gun, when a hand claps over his mouth and nose, holding some sort of smelly cloth. Chloroform? Too classic... His body crumples into the arms of his assailant, whom he briefly sees through foggy eyes- tall, with black hair. Sherlock? No.. it must be.. Rice.

* * *

Sherlock hears the door close as he locks John's window, and he pauses in the air for a long moment with his ears suddenly perked. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson came back? John wouldn't be going anywhere. There are no footsteps, and suddenly Sherlock feels very ill-at-ease.

"John?" He calls from the top of the stairs. Hearing nothing, Sherlock thunders quickly down and skids into the kitchen, taking it all in supremely quick. Open cupboard, tea set out, kettle ready and hot. John's gun on the floor. Sherlock's fingers reach out for it tentatively, half-confusedly, and he picks it up. Why was it on the floor?

Panic hits him in the chest once, and his head jerks up and he shouts: "JOHN?"

He doesn't wait, vaulting down the stairs to ground floor, grabbing his coat and stumbling into it, bursting out into the street.

* * *

AN: Please review to let us know what you think! Thank you!


	9. Chapter 9

AN: My apologies in advance for all of the line breaks in this section, it's horrendous, I know. But it could have been a lot worse! Thank you for reading, favouriting, and reviewing. :)

* * *

There are cars and people going in both directions. Nothing really stands out in the smoggy morning. But, now about a block away, a unremarkable tannish car carts John Watson away in the backseat. Rice is driving, his eyes on the rear-view mirrors. He has heard stories about Holmes, and John Watson too. It is only fitting that they both go down in this.. this retribution of his. How dare his fiancée court other men. And Sherlock Holmes, despised by so many and an easy target through John, is the perfect one to frame.

After a few minutes of driving, Rice pulls into a nondescript building. It is a travel agency, _Sunshine Voyages_, but they have been closed for the last three months. He used to work there. He pulls out his phone, checking the time. Beatrice will be meeting him here, presumably for lunch, in less than an hour.

* * *

For a few moments, Sherlock doesn't do anything. Just stands in the cool morning and _blanks_. Then, it's gone, and he's angry. He throws the door open behind him and vaults up the stairs and immediately begins to pace.

Call the Yard? No, they suspect him enough already, no need to take them from guarding Rice's flat (and they could prove invaluable if he returned there). Call his brother? Unlikely, he wasn't a god, no matter how godlike he attempted to be, and there was little hope he'd have seen anything useful.

The facts were clear: Rice had been here, and he'd missed it. He'd _missed it_ and he hates himself because _John is gone_, and he could have done something.

He takes out his phone and presses it thoughtfully to his lips. Options: call Beatrice, force information out of her; call the Yard anonymously and leave a tip that John's been taken; call John and see what happens.

John is on speed dial. The second number. Of two. Sherlock presses the second button and holds the mobile to his ear.

After three and a half rings and it is almost time to give up, there is a click of connection, followed by fabric noises that suggest the phone has only just been retrieved off of John. Suggesting that John must not be conscious yet. Morbid thoughts add _if he ever will be again..._

"Hello, Holmes." Rice says. His voice is low, throaty. Almost like he isn't entirely in control of it, or like he is lost elsewhere. "What do you want?"

John's kidnapper is inside the old Sunshine Voyages building right now, and all is silent save for muted noises of cars outside. It will be ten more minutes before... before Beatrice arrives, and he will end all of this for her. End all of the lies. And then some.

Rice paces in front of John, who is bound into a swivel chair left behind when the agency closed. Posters, fliers, and maps litter the walls, some fallen to the floor. There are a few built-in counters and tables where the computers and clients both used to sit- never cleared out after the building was reclaimed by the bank. No one will miss this building.

Sherlock nearly shouts into the phone, but reins himself in at the last moment. "Rice." He chooses his words carefully, listening to every minute detail in the background he can gather. _Listening for John._ He doesn't give any indication of the panic that wants to press into all parts of his brain. "Don't waste my time. Is he alive?"

He's a very good actor, brilliantly hiding the terrified bob of his throat.

Rice gives a sinister chuckle. "Oh, I don't know. I haven't checked... you know these _military_ types." He sounds disgusted but it's probably just a factor of the situation. "Always taking orders, taking control... just _taking_ everything that you thought was yours." He's rambling now, gesturing to an unresponding room. He switches John's phone to his left hand so he can glance at his other wrist for the time. Less than five till the hour. In the distance he hears the ringing of some errant church bells.

"Don't worry, this will all be pinned on _you_ of course, Holmes. I couldn't believe how easy this would be- before I found out about John Watson I didn't know _what_ I was going to do. But even the police hate you. And honestly, you already assaulted my girlfriend in the park. You're obviously more than a little misguided."

Sherlock's mind gives a tiny cry of elation at the sound of the bells, distant and yet so clear, so reliably two minutes off. He keeps Rice talking, switching discreetly to speaker as he texts Lestrade.

"Yes, that _was_ rather brilliant of you," Sherlock says with a convincing humbleness to his voice. "How'd you do it? No one's ever outsmarted me before."

_Rice in abandoned building near St Matthew's in Brixton. He has John. Please for the love of god trust me._

_SH_

And he's moving. He'll have to take a cab.

Rice seems to laugh, is it a laugh? Some sort of dire snort. "Oh, indulge me all you want. But I have to go... soon the lying _whore_ will be here." He picks up the gun he's managed to get hold of just for today, and cocks then uncocks it a bit restlessly. "Your conviction will be fast."

And with that he hangs up.

* * *

Lestrade is just finishing up in a meeting when he receives the text message from Sherlock's phone. He has never heard- or rather, seen- Sherlock this urgent before. Sighing loudly, he runs a hand through his grey hair and replies, brief as usual. He doesn't know why he ever indulges the man like this.

_sending a car out. hostage situation? where are you?_

_gl_

Sherlock curses quite loudly when Rice hangs up on him, greatly disturbing two pensioners walking by. The next cab that comes by stops for him, and he rockets into the back seat.

"St. Matthew's, Brixton. An extra fifty if you're there in ten minutes or less. Ignore the speed limit."

He hits off a quick text to Mycroft that it's of national importance that the speed cameras along their route conveniently switch off. And, as the cab shoots off, he replies to Lestrade around shaking fingers.

_On my way. Rice extremely unstable, not likely to negotiate. I owe you._

_SH_

He briefly considers trying to find some way to alert Beatrice, then realizes that the longer Rice speaks to her, the longer the window to save John. And John is most certainly the only thing that matters in this situation.

Lestrade is intensely curious about this whole matter, so he ends up in the passenger seat of the first car out of the two he ends up sending out. Sherlock Holmes or not, it is a reported hostage situation. They keep their flashing lights off and Lestrade hopes that the time wasted will be made up for in the subtlety gained by the lack of excess noise and lights. The two cars still speed enough as it is, bringing himself and four officers trained for possible siege-like and hostage situations. T minus six minutes to their arrival, Lestrade estimates.

* * *

Beatrice walks uneasily down the nearly abandoned street, looking at the address again to be sure she has it right. This certainly doesn't look like someplace Wally would hang about. Nonetheless, he'd said it was important, so she walks toward the abandoned building and presses the door open.

"Wally?"

Rice slips through the door, closing it again before Beatrice can see inside, gun still in his left hand, held casually as if either he's forgotten or he doesn't expect Beatrice to notice. "Ah, you're here!" He half-smiles, regarding her at arm's length. "I have quite the _something_ to show you."

Beatrice backs up a step, immediately seeing the gun he is holding haphazardly in his hand. "Wally?" Her voice is shrill but quiet, eyes on the gun. She looks like she wants to bolt. This, on top of everything that's happened in the past two days? But she doesn't bolt, because she's afraid he'll fire if she does.

Wallace's eyes harden a little. "Beatrice, you have been dating other men. Plural. And you have never told any of us. Why?"

He doesn't wait for an answer because he has played out this conversation in his mind plenty off times since he found out about the sham, and he knows that she will have no answer for him. Tugging too-harshly at her arm, Rice brings her inside, and they can both audibly hear the click of his gun as he readies it to fire.

"One of the others is already dead. And look what we have here. One _John Watson_." His gun arm unsteadily gestures at the former soldier, the other still holding Beatrice strongly. He waits to see what she could possibly say.

This part of the plan hadn't been one-hundred-percent worked out in his mind.

* * *

Sherlock has his eyes closed in the back of the speeding taxi, blocking out the sounds of screeching tires and horns blaring in its wake as he consults the map in his head—abandoned buildings in a five block radius of St. Matthew's. The most obvious is the old travel agency, and he wonders what sort of intellect is behind Rice's madness, if he would be careless enough to be obvious.

Smart enough to attempt to pin this on Sherlock, but stupid enough to answer John's phone. Safe to assume the travel agency. He gets the cabbie to stop a half block from the agency, throws a wad of cash into the front seat and leaps out, already at a run.

Still in the police car, Lestrade sees a familiar dark-haired man practically fall out of a cab, beginning to head down the street at a remarkably fast pace. "Pull over." He orders, out of the car and intercepting Sherlock almost before they have stopped. "Holmes!' He calls out, snagging the man by an arm. "Tell me what is going on. It's not going to help anyone if you just run in there; he could even be provoked to shoot." Lestrade's face is a glare, this is serious police business. Why couldn't it have been someone else, someone less _headstrong_ than Sherlock Holmes.

For a second, it looks like Sherlock is going to punch Lestrade, full-armed and wild. For a second, he looks _panicked_. He doesn't recover fast enough, and it's easy enough for even Lestrade to see. He can't stop his hand from shaking under Lestrade's grip on his wrist, but he wipes his face completely clean. He speaks incredibly fast, but precisely, like he knows how much weighs on timing and accuracy.

"He didn't kill John. He could have, easily, while I was distracted in the flat. Instead he brings him here. He mentioned Beatrice when he answered John's phone. Obviously a trap to lure her here, and expose her lies. Rice is unstable, and will likely kill them both, and perhaps himself, if we're not quick enough. _I won't have that._" And he wrenches his hand away from Lestrade, looking ready to bolt for the building.

* * *

Beatrice gasps loudly: the gun, John, Rice suddenly and inextricably mad. It's so much, and it takes a great effort not to give in to the weight it's pressing on her brain quite without warning, but she does. She wobbles slightly on her feet, but she gathers her strength and fixes Rice with a doe-eyed, horrified stare.

"He doesn't mean anything, Wally. Honestly. We haven't done anything, it's the truth to God." To her credit, her voice only quavers slightly.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: So sorry how long this took! I don't know what came over me! Thanks so much for your reviews, please leave one! Lots of exclamation points! Agh!

* * *

_"He doesn't mean anything, Wally. Honestly. We haven't done anything, it's the truth to God." To Beatrice's credit, her voice only quavers slightly._

Rice's unsteady hand stops pointing at John and brings the gun to his own left temple. "And you haven't "done" anything with me, either." His voice goes a little hysterical. "what am I supposed to think?"

His eyes snap from Beatrice over to John as the man gives a quiet groan, seeming to start to waken. John's eyes flicker but for now remain closed. The sedative was heavy.

Beatrice stutters another gasp, doesn't scream because she can't. "Wally, please no—" She doesn't even notice John, because she wants to wrench the gun away from Wally but is too terrified to touch him.

* * *

Lestrade grimaces, waving full-armed to get the cars to follow them as he jogs to follow Sherlock, again trying to stop him, voice a little too loud and attracting the attention of the few passers-by. "Sherlock, y_ou will not go in there without a plan_, or you will be arrested when it goes wrong and half of you die."

For the first time in a long time (the pool, he thinks with a stinging somewhere in his chest), he doesn't know what to do. He sags visibly, and it's horrible, and he wants to do anything but listen to Lestrade so that he can do what he can to save John.

But he stops, and he nods, and it's the hardest thing he's ever done. "Yes. Okay. Please."

Soon, Lestrade is on the far side of his squad car, gun out and gesturing with a flick of his head for one of the other officers to go in. They have made a rough perimeter, and Lestrade has told Sherlock to stay near him. The detective inspector glances over his shoulder for a second to check that Holmes is still there. He's obviously even less stable than usual.

Sherlock checks and unchecks the safety on John's gun over and over in a loop, watching blankly as the officer walks into the building. Sherlock thinks he's probably going to die. Better him than John. Better anyone than John. He keeps an eye on Lestrade, clicking the safety on and off and on and off and...

* * *

Wallace's eyes suddenly well up and he lowers the gun, spreading his arms. Almost as if it was inadvertent that the gun is on John again. "Darling, can't you see how I would think...?"

He is cut off by a casual knock on the door. Who would be coming here? And why would they knock? The windows, few that there are, are far too dirty to see out of. Carefully moving to have a clear look- or shot, Rice thinks giddily- at the door he calls. "Do come in." His gun hand hides itself behind his back.

A young man wearing the police uniform edges into the house, eyes taking in the situation. He looks a little panicky, Rice thinks.

"H-hello officer.. it's probably best if you just leave now." Rice has no idea how menacing his attempt at a smile looks to the man.

The young officer holds his hands up slowly. "The building is surrounded, Rice. Release your hostages and we can negotiate. No one wants to hurt you, just let them go." He is obviously not a trained hostage negotiator, just one of the PCs that Lestrade happened to pull along with him on this merry chase.

Beatrice is terrified, but as Rice's attention turns to the officer, she makes the smallest imperceptible move backward, toward John and his chair.

Suddenly Rice's gun goes off and the officer is screaming and clutching at his kneecap. The room bursts into movement. Rice whirls on Beatrice and grabs her by the wrists, pulling her away from John before releasing her and glaring around the room. The policeman has hit the ground, partially against the wall where he had entered, and is clearly out of the game. John is fighting the effects of the sedative, blinking far too often and starting to look around the room, surprisingly calm as he starts to struggle against his bonds. Rice still hasn't noticed that John is lucid.

* * *

Lestrade curses rather loudly when he hears the scream, tilting his head up to the sky briefly. He racks his brain for what to tell his men now. Rice can be treated as hostile? Obvious. We're going in? Too great a chance of death on both sides. Then what?

Sherlock's lungs contract at the sound of the gunshot, and he must have taken a sharp breath. The gun's safety is off. Lestrade isn't even looking at him. So there is no one to stop him when he turns on heel and disappears from amongst the police barricade. Not running. Walking briskly. Not stopping. Round the opposite side of the building almost as if he's guided by something else. The sounds of struggle inside hit his ears but he can't register them. Because if he does, he'll lose it, and he can't afford the time that will waste.

So he kicks in the back door.

Beatrice screams, she can't help herself, shouting for the police to come and help, that Rice is crazy and he's going to kill everyone. She wants to bolt, but the gun is horrifying and she can't move, unless her knees give out on her.

Rice spins again on the back door and registers who it is. "Holmes..." He near-growls, and his gun is cocked again already and on John, who is across the room and freezes in his bonds. John's mouth is open as if he was going to say something, but he doesn't know anymore and his gaze flickers between Rice and Sherlock, remaining on the latter. _Help,_ the veteran's eyes seem to say.

Rice's arm shakes unsteadily but his eyes stay on Sherlock. "Leave, or I s-shoot your _boyfriend_ now." He hates himself for the stutter.

Sherlock has John's gun on Rice almost casually, and his eyes fix on John. "Are you all right?" He asks, and clearly that's what matters. God help Rice if he's hurt John, because Sherlock will tear him apart.

John does a quick mental inventory, and his eyes flicker back to Rice for a second before he nods. "Yes. Just tied. A little bruised." Mentioning the bruising is an afterthought but he thinks he ought to admit it.

From where her knees have dropped her on the floor, Beatrice's eyes flash between all three of them, and suddenly no one is paying attention to her. She could run. She could help that officer. She could _do something_. Her hands close very quietly around an abandoned paperweight on the ground at her ankle.

Rice gestures with the gun. "Out. Or he's d-" Distracted by the soft ting of fingernails on glass paperweight, he turns slightly and regards Beatrice, confused anger in his face. "What are you doing?" He moves as if to grab her and pull her up, maybe even shoot her.

A second later, without it even registering in his eyes, Sherlock shoots Rice in the kneecap, taking precious broad steps to stand between John and the shooter. Through the deadpan look on Sherlock's face, the briefest sneer breaks through as he stares Rice down and shoots again for the second kneecap.

Beatrice screams, throws her arms over her head, and buckles into herself.

John's eyes fly open and he is staring at Sherlock, stunned that his friend could and would do such a thing. He is distracted by Rice's loud cries just after each shot and twitches slightly, war visions in his eyes. He takes a sharp breath, knowing that knee injuries are some of the most painful. Especially if the kneecap is shattered.

"Holmes..." Rice gasps, trying to struggle back up, his hands scrabbling to find purchase to cock the gun again. "You'll p-pay for this." It is obviously taking almost all of his concentration to keep himself conscious and talking.

Sherlock strides to Rice and kicks his gun hand unkindly, knocking the gun away and perhaps jamming a couple of fingers in the process. He holds John's gun steady in his hand, aiming at Rice's head. And he frowns.

"You're very lucky nothing happened to him. There are worse places I could have shot you." He takes a steadying breath, and suddenly he's not so in control anymore. His gun hand shakes just slightly, and suddenly he whirls around and moves back to John, kneeling by the chair and untying his hands without another word.

Biting back the tense "No, Sherlock" that had formed on his lips when the gun pressed against Rice's head, John tries to move so as to help Sherlock get the ties undone. His head follows Sherlock's movements, somehow uncertain that this is all really happening.

Rice is on the floor, gasping back sobs as he sees his plan crumble, and as the deep crimson begins to seep through the fabric of his dark-coloured pants. The police officer has pulled himself up by a dusty windowsill and takes a limping step towards Sherlock and John. "Look..." he says, voice low. "None of us wants to get arrested for anything that happened here. You shot in self-defense, alright?"

John watches Sherlock's face, however unreadable it tends to seem, as he starts to be able to shake off his bonds.

Sherlock ceases freeing John's hands, and at first he doesn't move. One touch at John's wrist, fleeting but reassuring, and Sherlock is suddenly on his feet, turning to the officer.

"Yes, of course. Thank you. Your name is Atherton, yes? I'll see it gets to my brother." He doesn't turn back to John, looks instead at Beatrice on the floor. She's fainted dead away. Utterly useless woman. "We'll be needing an ambulance. For you, and for Mister Rice. And someone should attempt to revive Miss Braithwhyte."

John stands, wincing slightly and cracking his neck sideways. It has been at least a few hours without any movement. He comes up to Sherlock's side, rubbing at his chafed wrists, and watches as his friend talks.

The police officer nods, letting out a sharp gasp nonetheless as his knee threatens to buckle. John is back into medic mode and he comes forward to support the man and surveys the damage. He can tell that Sherlock is still looking at him; he feels a strange tingling feeling in the back of his neck.

Just then Lestrade bursts in through the front door, and John can hear behind him another officer mirroring Lestrade at the back entrance. He grimaces, quickly helping the man find the wall to support himself then raising his hands in the gesture of surrender.

Lestrade looks around and quickly lowers his gun, shouting, "All clear! Get these men to the ambulance," gesturing to Rice and his officer Atherton. His eyes find Beatrice, fainted on the floor. "Miss Braithwhyte, also, please." He puts his hands in his pockets and approaches Sherlock. His face is unreadable, jaw set.

Sherlock takes his eyes from John and focuses with minimal interest on Lestrade. "Took your time." The adrenaline is still working its way out of his system, and it shows as John's gun, still in his hand, shakes noisily as it rattles in his grip. He swallows the emotion away with some effort. "That man Atherton deserves a promotion. Or at least a raise."

Lestrade frowns slightly. "I'll consider it. And I'm not going to ask you what happened in here," He turns to John. "But I will need some sort of statement from you over the next few days regarding the events before today John nods, brow furrowing. Lestrade looks between Sherlock and John. "Thank you men, I'm sure that this could have gone worse if you weren't here." And with a crisp nod he has turned and is walking away, supervising Rice's handcuffing in the ambulance. Someone else has retrieved the madman's gun from where Sherlock had kicked it.

John faces Sherlock, eyes locking with his as he softly pries the gun from Sherlock's fingers and, putting the safety on, slips it back into his own inside pocket. His fingers stay lightly touching Sherlock's for a moment. "Are _you_ alright?" He searches for some sort of honest answer, some sort of feeling. The policemen are slowly dissipating, helping with either Rice, Beatrice, or Atherton.

Sherlock doesn't answer immediately, and his fingers twitch lightly when John lingers. But even though his eyes are low on the wall behind John, he manages to keep his face unreadable. He nods tightly, and he gathers himself enough to look John in the eye. "Yes. Now." He steps away when he says it, looking for anyone who might stop their exit. No one bars them. "Baker Street?" As if he didn't just shoot a man in the kneecaps (and was thoroughly satisfied with the fact).

John nods decisively, though Sherlock is already on the move. He trails after, shortly catching up. "Sherlock..." His speech peters off, John forgetting or deciding against whatever he was about to say and replacing it with something else. "Let's not do anything else too exciting today." A pause. "At least not until the evening."

Almost as soon as the last officer has left the building, Sherlock turns right on heel and gathers John in an awkward, all-elbows embrace, grips tight for precisely seven seconds, before he lets John go. He doesn't linger on it, hardly acknowledging it has even happened. "Quiet night in. Next Bond film. Yes." He turns again for the door just as quickly.

Caught in the embrace, John barely realizes it is happening and starts to return it before Sherlock breaks away and goes on with his life. _Of course he does_, John thinks to himself ruefully. _He's married to his work, after all._ But John's chest feels oddly light, as he heads for the door. "A cab?" He suggests, doubting that either one of them particularly wants to take the tube.

Sherlock tries very hard not to rub his face with both hands, but weakness is bad. Very bad. He certainly can't show it in front of John. Regardless, his voice isn't strong when he replies: "I don't have cash. I gave it all on my way here."

John looks worriedly at Sherlock, almost putting an arm around him before he thinks better of it. "Don't worry," He says, trying to keep his tone light and chipper. "I had a few quid on me before... you know." John raises his arm for a cab, and there is still one pulling up to the curb relatively quickly- given that they are now just leaving a crime scene. He pays and slips into the back seat, making room for Sherlock. "221B Baker Street, please." The soldier's gaze often flickers back over to Sherlock, just checking.

Sherlock's gaze catches John's as he calls the cab, and it's almost as if he can see straight through him (as always, like a mind-reader). And when he climbs into the cab after John, he's smirking. Not the usual smug, self-satisfied Sherlock smirk, it seems almost, for the lack of a better word, _normal_.

Halfway through the drive, Sherlock speaks up lowly. "I suppose that if I hadn't assaulted McCallister, this wouldn't have happened."

John lets out a short laugh, smiling at Sherlock. "I suppose not. But it's better to have it over with. Perhaps?" He is trying to be the optimist, and for the most part he is convinced, himself. John's eyes cloud over as it suddenly occurs to him to wonder how Beatrice is do- no, mustn't think of that. He frowns, quickly distracted.

Sherlock recognizes the look metamorphosing in John's eyes, and he doesn't like it, so he smirks in reply. "She'll be fine. Better than you, in all likelihood." He drops his eyes to his shoes. "It's _my_ fault, I don't see why you should feel upset."

John's expression clears up slightly and he shrugs. "It's better to know, I suppose. Than for her to still be.. cheating." He almost has to spit the word in order to get it out. They are just pulling up to the stop on Baker Street, and John starts to go for the door, sparing a last glance for Sherlock before he goes.

* * *

AN: Next chapter may be the last of this arc! Exciting! See you then.


	11. Chapter 11

_They are just pulling up to the stop on Baker Street, and John starts to go for the door, sparing a last glance for Sherlock before he goes._

Sherlock watches John all the way out, and then climbs out to follow him, smirking across the top of the cab. "You're welcome." He makes it to the door first and unlocks it, holding it open for John.

John looks a little flustered and there is a silent tension before he accepts Sherlock's politeness and goes through first, ascending the stairs with no hint of a limp. He opens the second-floor door a little hesitantly though, peeking inside for a barely-noticeable second before entering. He can see that the dropped mugs remain on the kitchen floor from earlier, and the unheated water too is just waiting on the counter to be used.

Sherlock follows, entering the kitchen behind John and immediately bending to pick up the fallen mugs. "Sorry. Not much time to clean up, earlier," he admits, wondering if the chipped mugs are worth keeping. He holds them up to John, inquiring with his eyes.

John shakes his head, looking for some sort of paper bag to contain the sharper chipped pieces. "Pity, but there's not really anything to do about it.." He glances around and finally shuts the cupboard that he had unintentionally left ajar this whole time after being startled. "What time is it, anyhow? Half one, two?"

"What does it matter?" Sherlock asks under his breath as he dumps the long-cold water from the kettle into the sink. He pauses, then runs the water again to fill the kettle. Tea. Tea should help this uncontrollable jittery feeling he can't quite quantify. The kettle goes down less calmly than he'd wanted and he curses in two languages in his head. Nevertheless, he pretends it didn't happen and turns the stovetop on.

John has a concerned expression on his face, but he doesn't say anything and just leans back against the counter, observing Sherlock like Sherlock observes so much else. He grabs a couple of tea bags and slides them across the counter towards his flatmate. "Sherlock. What is it?" he tries not to sound too concerned. After all, they both know that Sherlock just shot a man, twice. That can certainly have an effect on someone.

He curses again (in his head, in three languages this time) when John catches him, and at first he doesn't even try to play it off as nothing.

"I—"

Then he thinks better of it.

"Nothing."

Then he thinks better of that.

"Well, John, I—"

Then he thinks better of speaking altogether and tosses the tea bags into a pair of mugs. Having done some menial action, it helps to kick-start his speaking function.

"I was afraid." A simple confession for anyone but Sherlock Holmes.

John's expression softens and again he almost embraces Sherlock, getting as close as a hand brushing along the man's sleeve. "I- It's only human, Sherlock. Natural. Guns, dealing with _extremely_ unpredictable men... it might have been only a matter of time." John doesn't seem to really understand the magnitude of the confession, or maybe he is just trying to ignore it and keep the discussion at this level. Maybe not.

Sherlock turns his head and fixes John with a piercing look, the face that says _idiot_ without having to use the effort for words.

"If I'd been afraid of Rice, I'd have let Lestrade send all his men in the front and locked myself in one of the squad cars." That is clearly not what he meant by _afraid_.

"I-" John stops before he's even really started speaking, and his memory flashes back, Sherlock's behavior when they got back to the apartment in the morning, at his appearance on the scene at the travel agency... His voice comes out very inadvertently soft, and there is a queer expression on his face as he finds himself unable to look Sherlock straight in the eye. "Oh."

Sherlock knew this would be a Bit Not Good, and he rather wishes he'd listened to the first plan of brushing it off as nothing. So he breaks eye contact, frowns to himself, and steps quickly out of the kitchen to the sitting room, where he sweeps up his violin and starts playing. Noise, not even a recognizable tune. Just noise to fill up the space between his ears.

John sighs through his nose, making ready with the tea and deciding to add a plate of cheese and crackers to the side. God knows Sherlock doesn't eat enough. After a few minutes of simply tolerating the grating violin, the water is ready and John fills both mugs, balancing them with the plate he had prepared. It takes a little concentration and a lot of balance but he manages to get everything out into the sitting room in one go, clearing his throat loudly to alert Sherlock of his presence. He acts like nothing had happened. "I got some cheese..."

The bow on the strings slows as Sherlock turns his head to John. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't look angry. Perhaps slightly confused, but he's thankful that John doesn't mention it.

Brief weakness, that's all. Right?

He takes a breath, nods once, and turns back to the window to start playing again. After a few moments, John recognizes it as _Bad Romance_.

John smirks and looks back up to Sherlock. His eyes amusedly ask, _Really?_ and he sits down a bit stiffly on the couch, Sherlock on the lounge chair. "Bond, then?" He asks, really fine with anything at this point. His muscles are still a little sore, but he's trying to stretch them better little be little.

Sherlock watches John out of the corner of his eye, a concerned frown flickering when he sees John stiffness and there's a brief flare of still-prominent hatred for Rice seated in his eyes. But he extinguishes it quickly, setting the violin down in his seat and vaulting over it to the DVD player.

In two quick minutes, Quantum of Solace has started. Sherlock backs away from the telly, and when he's near the sofa, turns just slightly and asks with his eyes if he can join John.

John raises his eyebrows and does that funny pursing thing with his lips. "Hm?" he asks, looking at Sherlock as he brings the cheese and cracker he had taken, up to his mouth.

Sherlock shifts from one foot to the other, frowns, and lingers just another handful of seconds. Then, he decides that he doesn't need permission and he doesn't even know why he's asking, so he flops down onto the sofa beside John without a word. He snatches a slice of cheese and stuffs into his mouth, glancing sidelong at John to see if he's done anything Not Good.

John's amused gaze leaves Sherlock just as the investigator looks over to John. The veteran watches the car chase nonchalantly, but he is completely taken in by the scene. Everything is moving so quickly. John doesn't comment on Sherlock's unusual proximity, and tries to relax a little, sighing quietly and fidling with the hem of his jumper.

Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs to perch his chin on his knees as he watches silently. Now and again, he'll send a glance at John, then focuses again on the telly.

"Why does he choose such expensive cars to ruin?" Sherlock says under his breath.

John chuckles, briefly looking at Sherlock. "I don't really think it's a choice... Just in the moment, you know?" His arm brushes Sherlock as he reaches to put down his tea mug. He's accustomed to having the couch to himself, but this is fine too. "What, what would you recommend he do?"

He watches John's arm on the way down for his tea, then turns his eyes back to the telly. "The rate he goes through these vehicles, it has to be a substantial drain on his budget, or MI6's budget at least. There has to be a dependable car for a more reasonable price that he can throw down a mountain as often as he'd like. A Mazda is easier to replace than a Bentley."

John flat-out grins, looking at Sherlock with his brows raised. _Really?_ "I suppose. But it wouldn't make as interesting a movie, for most people."

The scene is almost over, and John stretches widely, avoiding hitting Sherlock with his arms. Still stiff.

He ducks under John's outstretched arm, and he tries to hide the amused smile that appears despite himself. "It would be more realistic." He pauses, cocking his head at the telly. "Then again, we're not dealing with fight scenes choreographed with lasers anymore, so any level of realism is certainly a welcome break."

"Well, if we wanted to watch a realistic movie we would have watched a..." John searches for something. "Documentary, I suppose. Not really something I am personally keen on."

"Hm. Dull," Sherlock agrees lowly. He settles back against his legs, practically hiding his face in his knees. He's thinking about reaching for his tea, but it's all the way on the table and he would have to reach across John, and for some reason he really doesn't want to do that.

About two hours later, most of the cheese and crackers are gone- a joint project of both of them, but mostly John of course. The tea mugs are both empty and on the table. The credits begin to roll, and John rouses himself to stretch again and glance over at Sherlock. "Sh-" He begins, but stops, brow furrowing. Is he really asleep? It looks like it. John stands, eyes going soft. This is probably the first time he has ever seen Sherlock asleep. He tries to quietly gather the mugs and plate, but winces as he is sure their quiet clinking as he places them in the sink, will wake Sherlock up.

Sherlock jerks awake at the unexpected noise, giving a sleepy mutter of "John?" and giving a quick look around. _This_ is why he doesn't sleep; reflexes are dulled and the senses go fuzzy, reducing his usefulness significantly.

John comes back into the room, heading for the DVD player to put the movie back away. He knows Sherlock won't on his own. "Go back to sleep." His tone is a little scolding, and he looks concerned. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Sherlock blinks slowly to try to focus on John across the room. It's not late, there's no reason he should have fallen asleep. Especially with Bond on the telly and John sitting next to him. He can't wrap his brain around it. John won't stop being blurry, so he squeezes his eyes shut instead.

"Yes, okay." He stands too quickly and wobbles, falling back into the sofa uselessly. He gives a frustrated grunt and instead sprawls out all across the sofa and buries his face in the Union Jack pillow.

John smirks, trying not to laugh yet relieved that Sherlock is taking his advice. But, finishing clearing up, he gets an odd feeling. He doesn't know how comfortable he feels sleeping- he had gotten used to knowing that Sherlock was up, awake and presumably watching over the night. Creepy yet true. He heads upstairs anyway, but shortly gives up on that and comes back down, taking a book with him. He flops in an uncharacteristically limp manner into the lounge chair, starting to read.

He doesn't know why he doesn't want John to go upstairs, he always goes upstairs. It shouldn't really be any different. Besides, Sherlock checked John's room, the window is locked, he should be safe.

Nonetheless, when John returns and sits in his chair, Sherlock smirks and turns his head from being buried in the throw pillow to peer sleepily across the room at him. After a moment, Sherlock asks: "Problem?"

"No, nothing. Go to sleep, why don't you?" John looks worriedly at Sherlock. "For once, if you can..." He flips through the pages of the book. It is Brave New World, and he's read it enough times before that he can just look for the parts he wants.

"You never have trouble sleeping," Sherlock notes, words half-obscured by the pillow trying to swallow him back up. His body is telling him that John's right, that he should sleep, but his mind is more interested in answers. No matter how small.

"Well, you never seem to sleep." John replies a little defensively, looking over at Sherlock. He doesn't look angry, just a minuscule bit pouty. "But that doesn't mean it's not allowed."

Sherlock ignores him, and he narrows his eyes to survey and read. "You're not in a great amount of physical pain, not enough to keep you from sleeping, anyhow. You don't appear to be under a great deal of emotional duress, most of that was negated by watching the film. You've grabbed one of your favorite books, one you've read enough to wear away the corners of the pages and for you to be able to skip the bits you don't like." He pauses for another moment, searching John for answers. "And it has nothing to do with your nightmares. So, John. Problem?"

"Comfort reading?" John shrugs. "I suppose I haven't really been conscious all too long today..." He is grasping for reasons, not sure what else to say if Sherlock asks again. He hopes Sherlock doesn't, and it shows a little in his eyes.

It looks for a moment that Sherlock is actually _upset_, that he regrets it just for the barest moment. But it's gone quickly because he doesn't want anyone to see that, least of all John. So he flips onto his opposite side and curls up into himself on the sofa.

John lets out a sigh that is louder than he had hoped for, and decides on a chapter of the book. Maybe it was a bad idea to come down here, but he wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway.

Sherlock doesn't sleep. He runs the day back in his head over and over, staring at the back cushion until John's breath regulates and his book drops softly to the floor. Sherlock gives him another ten minutes (_Rice has his gun on John, Rice is going to shoot John, Rice is a dead man_) before he rises slowly from the sofa.

John's asleep sitting up, breathing heavily but not snoring. Long day. Sherlock drapes the afghan over John, and without stopping, he moves to his room and locks himself inside.

* * *

AN: Well, this is the end of this part of the story! I mean.. it goes on from here, but I thought this was a good place to stop. If you've been holding off on reviewing till the last chapter- now's the time! (I like having this number of chapters- it's like one for every Doctor!) Thanks so much to TheShoelessOne (.net/u/253338/TheShoelessOne ) for, well, putting up with me. As well as those few of you who have given your support along the way in reviews.

Don't forget to put either/both of us on Alert if you want to read more stories of this variety! And thanks again for sticking with me! :-) -Dan


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